


Peppermint Schnapps, a Pink Cast, and a Christmas Party

by greerian



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Best Friends, Car Accidents, Connor is a Good Friend, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, M/M, Minor Character Death, Neeley is a jerk, Post-Uganda (Book of Mormon Musical), Romantic Angst, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-04 19:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12778101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerian/pseuds/greerian
Summary: Fic-ified version of a rp thread ("A Christmas Thread") between prophet-cunningham and elderxprice on Tumblr. Inspired by Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol," of course. Hopefully this will bring you all the Pricingham Christmas angst your little heart desires.Smaller font (or chapters titled "Kevin") means the text was written by elderxprice, as Kevin. Larger font (or chapters titled "Arnold") means it was written by prophet-cunningham/greerian, as Arnold.





	1. Kevin

**Author's Note:**

> Fic-ified version of a rp thread ("A Christmas Thread") between prophet-cunningham and elderxprice on Tumblr. Inspired by Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol," of course. Hopefully this will bring you all the Pricingham Christmas angst your little heart desires.  
> Smaller font (or chapters titled "Kevin") means the text was written by elderxprice, as Kevin. Larger font (or chapters titled "Arnold") means it was written by prophet-cunningham/greerian, as Arnold.

The assignments on the board stretch from one end to the other. Kevin tries to remain indifferent as his students’ gripe about that being  _unfair,_ but the flood of warmth to his cheeks betray his frustration. The marker falls to the floor, as his hands make contact with his desk; “There is no such thing as  _fair_ ,” he says coolly, narrowing his eyes in hopes of appearing a touch more authoritative. “ _Fair_  is a concept created by folks who prefer to wallow in self-pity, instead of  _doing what needs to be done_ in order to do  _better -_ **spoiled people** , who think they can put life on hold, whenever it  _gets too hard_.” Like a majority of the students sitting before him, who have never had to work a day in their life for anything; who have been told from the day they were born that they were perfect, that they could do whatever they wanted, and their dad’s would beam with pride. He huffs; “– newsflash people,  _life_  isn’t fair; and once you get outta college,  **no one’s**  gonna care that the work’s too hard, or that Christmas is a few days away. If you have work to do,  _you do it_ ; same goes for this class. Understand?”

A sea of nodding heads, but Kevin knows that not even half will open their books over break, and even less will turn in the assignments. He wishes it wasn’t his problem, but teaching this class is helping him pay for graduate school, so he needs to succeed; but teaching a room full of petulant children isn’t exactly making that  _easy_.

So he lets them out early, waving them away without looking up. No one wishes him a Merry Christmas, save for the girl who drools over him, every time he enters the classroom. Her name is Sarah, and she’s left him little notes and chocolates before. He’s warned her about the inappropriateness of her behavior more than once, to no avail; but he hums in acknowledgement once she’s silenced herself, so at least she knows he was listening, and then shoves all of his books into a worn, leather mailbag, and hikes it up his shoulder.

The campus is nearly empty as Kevin trudges down its halls; so when his phone rings,  _loudly_ , it startles him – he’s glad no one’s around to see him react.

“—  _what_?” he asks wearily, stopping to lean against the doors. It’s snowing out; Kevin is in no rush to step out into it.

“Well hello to you, too.” Kevin can practically hear Connor rolling his eyes; “– were you this charming when I  _liked_  you? I can’t honestly remember.”

“Probably not,” Kevin responds, honestly; because when Connor met him – and liked him - Kevin hadn’t been picked apart by life just yet.

“Well anyway – “(and leave Connor to drop an unpleasant conversation, and replace it with another one.) “– I was hoping you’d meet me for a drink; and before you say  _no_ , it’s not to ring in the holidays or anything  _pathetic_  like that. Brian left me this morning, and I’m quite sad;  _so sad_ , in fact, I fear might end up back in the –”

“Okay! Okay, yeah, whatever you want.” Kevin shuffles his feet, as he stares out the window. There’s at least five inches of snow on all the parked cars; driving home – and to the bar – ought to be fun. “Just tell me where, okay?”

_Maxie’s_  is a hole in the wall, tucked between a convenience store and a for-sale Kosher deli. It has karaoke on Tuesdays and trivia on Fridays, and Kevin only ever agrees to come here on the few days in-between. It’s warm inside, so that’s a plus; but the floor is sticky, and whoever thought N’SYNC Christmas was an appropriate mood-setter really ought to be evaluated.  But then he sees the bright pink scarf at the digital jukebox and, okay – maybe that statement still stands, but it stands a little  _less_.

“Really, Connor?” he asks, tugging gently on his friend’s sleeve. “ _N’SYNC_? You’ll be lucky to make it out of here alive.”

But no one seems opposed to it; had it been  _Bye Bye Bye_  and a random day in June, however, the outcome would be a bit bleaker, he’s sure.

They settle into a little booth tucked into a corner near the restrooms; its location makes Kevin a bit wary, and he presses himself up against the wall to put as much space between himself and the urinals, as he can. Connor orders a Manhattan, while Kevin orders a Tequila flight and cheese fries.

“Guess I’ll be driving you home,” Connor says, resting his chin against the palm of his hand. He grins; “— gonna invite me in?”

Kevin rolls his eyes, kicking Connor’s shin beneath the table. “Thought you were heartbroken,” he says, continuing to jab Connor’s leg; “— over Brian already, huh?”

But Connor simply hums, refusing to take his eyes off Kevin, who quickly looks away. His foot drops to the ground.

“I have something for you,” Connor says after a beat, leaning back as the fries are dropped in-between them, and their drinks are placed upon rose-colored napkins.

“Oh, um —- you really shouldn’t have. I’ve been so busy, I haven’t —I mean I don’t have — I can give you some  _money_ , I guess?”

Now it’s Connor’s turn to roll his eyes. “You’re so thoughtful, Kevin. I’m so lucky to have you in my life.” But he’s still smiling, even as he slides a red envelope across the table. “– just  _consider_  it, okay?”

Figuring he’ll need it, Kevin kicks back one of his shots, before running a finger along the seal of the envelope. There’s a card inside; an  **invitation**.

“ **No** ,” Kevin says, crumbling it up. He tosses it at Connor’s forehead; “—-  _not happening_.”

“Oh?” Connor picks up his glass, arching a brow as he takes a delicate sip. “Why not?”

“ _Because_! I don’t know how many times I have to keep  _telling_  you this, Connor! The answer is  **no**!”

After forcefully shoving his basket of cheese fries towards Connor, Kevin slides out of the booth and starts buttoning up his coat, seething at his friend’s  _audacity_. “You  **need**  to stop meddling,” he spits, tugging on his scarf; “— he  _ruined_  my life. Feel free to tell him that, when you decline that invitation on my behalf.”

And then he leaves, stalking through the bar like a man crazed, hands furling into fists at his sides. One of them - the right one, unfortunately – comes into contact with the brick outside the building. His knuckles split, blood dripping down his hand before dropping into the snow at his feet.

“To  _heck_  with this,” he spits, cradling his injured hand; “— to heck with  _Christmas_.”


	2. Arnold

Arnold loves Christmas. Presents, cookies, sparkly things everywhere - who  **wouldn’t** love it? Everybody is  _happier_  during Christmas (except for the shoppers who red-facedly demand the  **exact thing** that just went out of stock for their precious kid/grandkid/nephew-twice-removed’s- _girlfriend_ ) and the music is  _prettier_  (except that “Silver Bells” is on for the fourth time in two hours, and that’s just today), and the decorations ( _are tacky_ ) and the spirit of Christmas…

Arnold sighs, and hoists another box of printer paper up, balanced against his gut. Who is he kidding; Christmas  ** _sucks_**. It didn’t always - or Arnold used to be more of an optimist. Looking at the world through red-and-white candy-cane colored glasses, every time the first of December rolled around. Now, though, it’s a ten hour shift at Salt Lake City’s solitary Staples, with a full month of that to look forward to.

“So, Black Friday really wiped us out, huh?” he says, hauling the box out of the back and letting it slam on the counter. Lisa, slouched against the counter, jumps; Frank, the manager, scowls.

“Not as much as it should,” he grumbles. “Used to be the whole store’d be picked bare. This- Look at the place! You can barely tell anybody came in!”

The statement echoes throughout the store, devoid of people, and therefore of other sounds.

“Well, uh, that  **was** a week ago,” Arnold answers. “I mean… isn’t it  ** _good_** we got caught up?”

“You kids, always thinking of yourselves.”

Lisa snorts.

“Look, if we don’t get sales to pick up, and  **fast** , corporate’s gonna cut our branch. Then where’re you deadbeats going to go?”

“Office Depot,” Lisa replies, shoving her phone back in her pocket as Frank storms into his prison cell office, presumably to eat his pissed-in cereal. “Like it’s  _our_ job to bring up the entire fucking franchise,” she mutters. “People’ll always need office supplies, won’t they? Where else will they get paper clips to hook into chains, or those useless rubber band balls?”

“Hey, uh, remember the time we had a contest to see who could bounce one of those higher?”

“And I kicked your ass and made you cover my Friday night shift? Hell yeah I do.”

Arnold’s turns away from Lisa’s smug grin and pulls a face. She  _thinks_ he had better things to do that Friday, but… he hasn’t had  **anything** to do on Fridays since Connor and Brian hooked up, and Connor stopped pity drinking (or pity calling, or… whatever) with Arnold. It was a toss up between work or sitting at home and doing one of three things: one, pirating the Force Awakens on his parents’ wifi; two, jacking off to black girls on PornHub or brunette guys on Men.com; or three, sitting on his bed for hours, staring at Kevin Price’s name in his phone, and the last texts they sent each other.

At least at work he’s making money.

Then “Silver Bells” comes on again, just as Middle Aged Mom ™ with two kids waltzes in, and Lisa conveniently decides to use the restroom. Awesome.

* * *

“So…” Connor drawls. “To what do I owe this delightful phone call?”

“Do me a favor and get something to Kevin?”

“No.”

“Con-”

“Nope. No way.  _Absolutely_  not. I am not your errand boy.”

“Connor-”

“You have his number saved, don’t you? Call, like a normal person.”

A beat.

“I’m sorry for that, Arnold, but we  **both** know you’re not… normal.”

“…he’s not gonna talk to me, Connor.”

“So, what, you want to give him a Christmas gift? You’re living out of your parents’ basement; you need to save up for an apartment or something.”

“I was gonna try to… invite him, um, someplace.”

It’s a long shot. Longer than a long shot; Arnold and Kevin haven’t talked in… how long has it been? But Frank promised to buy pizza for the Staples Christmas party, and Lisa won’t stop nagging Arnold about the  _one time_ he actually said Kevin’s name. It would be  **great** if Arnold could actually  _ **show up**_ with him, and make her  _shut up_ for once. Like,  ** _yeah_** , the hottest guy on earth actually  **was** my mission companion. Suck a fat one, Lisa.

“You think he’ll accept your invitation, but that he won’t talk to you?”

“Well, uh…” Arnold’s eyes flick to the carefully chosen fireplace-with-stockings card he nabbed from his mom’s blank card collection, lined with the neatest penmanship he’s made himself use since elementary school. “If he sees  _me_ with it, he won’t even read it, so I’m  **hoping** …”

Silence. Really silent silence. Arnold pulls the phone away to check and nope, the call didn’t get dropped. Then Connor sighs, static-y and harsh in his ear.

“Okay,” he says. “Fine. But if he turns on me because of this-”

“He won’t,” Arnold interrupts. “You know Kevin, he’s- he’s  _loyal_. He’s not gonna turn on you.”

“Well, that’s what we all thought with you, isn’t it?” Connor replies softly.

Arnold doesn’t have an answer for that.

He clears his throat, instead, and says “So just come by the store sometime this week, and I’ll have the invitation for you to take.”

“Wait, an  _actual_  invitation? Oh my god, tell me it’s not to a wedding.”

Arnold finds himself laughing. “Nah, not a wedding,” he says, hunching his shoulder to keep the phone balanced as he shoves the card into its envelope, protective sheet of paper slid in on top to protect the glitter and add-ons. “A Christmas party. Nothin’ fancy.”

“…oh, no.”

“What? What do you mean? What’s ‘oh, no,’ what’s-”

“Nothing!” Connor chirps. “Goodness, nothing. Would you look at the time, I must go, Brian’s going to-”

“Connor…”

“Seriously, Arnold, I have to go. I’ll swing by to pick up your little invitation, but… promise me you won’t be disappointed?”

Arnold closes his eyes, and nods. “Sure,” he answers. “Uh-huh, not disappointed at all.”

“Good,” Connor says, sounding almost gentle for a moment. “Well- goodbye for now, then.”

Three beeps, and Arnold is alone again.

As he scrawls Kevin’s name across the front of the card, he realizes suddenly that he’s humming: “Jingle Bell Rock,” thank the Lord (he will  **not**  make it through the season if he gets “Silver Bells” stuck in his head). A hint of a smile peeks out at the corner of his mouth, like the sun behind snow clouds. Arnold is prepared for disappointment, but he’s also hoping for a little Christmas miracle - the chance to get his best friend back.


	3. Kevin

It’s cold in Kevin’s car. The heat hasn’t worked for months now, but when it came to deciding between car repairs or a new wardrobe from  _Banana Republic_ , Kevin went for the Merino sweaters and overpriced Chinos. At the time it had seemed like a real great idea; he’d just landed a teaching job, to help pay for grad school – looking smart seemed  _necessary_ ; being warm, did not.

He regrets that decision now.

Cold weaves its way through the wool of his sweater, bringing a flush to the flesh of his cheeks.  Kevin’s teeth are chattering; he turns up the radio, so he doesn’t have to hear it.

As he merges onto the highway, Kevin’s breath clouds up in front of him, impeding his vision. Annoyed, he leans forward, wiping at the windshield with the sleeve of his coat.

Snow drifts across the highway. Kevin’s grip tightens on the wheel as he tries to keep it straight, fighting against a strong gust of wind that inches him closer towards the median.  Staying at Maxie’s would have been smart; having Connor drive him home would have been even  _smarter_ ; but then Kevin would’ve had to hear about Arnold, and he doesn’t want to do that - not now, not ever.

Another gust of wind. Kevin shivers, and finds himself missing Uganda. It was  _hot_  there, and snow was something people only  **wondered**  about. Over the course of two ( _very long_ ) years, he’d forgotten what it meant to be cold.

Now, he forgets what it’s like to be  _warm_ ; and what it’s like to have heat in your car, and a defroster that works. Leaning forward, Kevin reaches to wipe the haze from his windshield, again.

Someone lays on their horn.

The world turns upside down.

And then everything fades into black.

* * *

_Black ice_ , a nurse explains, once Kevin opens his eyes again. There is a bright pink cast on his left forearm, and a rough bandage stuck to the center of his forehead. Connor is flipping through a magazine,  _US Weekly_ , legs crossed in the chair right beside him; he snaps his gum as the nurse checks Kevin’s vitals.

“See what happens when you fly off the handle,” he scolds, blowing a bubble as Kevin fights to keep his dinner down. “I end up getting a phone call during the best blowjob of my life; and you  _know_  how much Brian hates doing that.”

_Unfortunately_ , Kevin thinks; “I thought Brian left you?” Slowly, he sits himself upright, wincing as his head starts to throb and the room starts to tilt.

“I  _lied_ ,” Connor says, closing the magazine. He drops it to the floor, and then lifts his gaze to Kevin; “– well,  _sort of_. He left to go Christmas shopping, but I was fairly certain he was coming back.”

An exaggerated sigh, and then Connor is on his feet and inching towards the hospital bed. Kevin stills as his friend smooths back his hair, long fingers combing through the tangled stands. “I don’t know  _why_ I bother with you,” Connor says gently, his hand lowering to pat Kevin’s cheek. “I can’t imagine I would, if you were half this attractive. Now change out of that terrible gown, so I can get you home. I  _know_  you can’t afford to spend the night in this place.”

* * *

Kevin doesn’t remember getting from the hospital to his tiny, one-bedroom apartment; nor does he remember Connor taking off his shoes, tucking him in, and leaving a glass of water and some pills beside the bed. He only knows it happens, because Connor leaves a note with a list of favors Kevin owes him.

_Once you’re feeling better_ , it says.

Kevin crumples it up, and lets it fall to the floor.

Sitting up, he feels —  _off kilter_. His arm, his hand, and his head are all throbbing in time with his pulse, and it makes him feel nauseous. Kevin barely makes it to the bathroom, before throwing up in the tub.

_Great_  – now his throat hurts, too, along with his stomach.

After running the water, he rests his forehead on the porcelain edge, staring down towards the pink cast Connor so  _obviously_  picked out.  Kevin could kill him; and he just might, once he has his wits about him. But not  _now_ ; not when his stomach is roiling and his head is throbbing and his phone won’t freaking stop ringing.

Somehow, he manages to crawl back into his bedroom, where his phone was left upon the bed in Kevin’s rush to the bathroom. Reaching for it, Kevin realizes that it has yet to go to voicemail; that the endless ringing has been one, solitary call. From  _UNKNOWN_ , as it happens. Wary, he answers; “—- hello?”

Silence; and then a knock on his door, as the call disconnects. It’s such a cruel irony – that someone should choose to bother him  _tonight_ , of all nights, when Kevin can’t even remember the last time anyone came to see him.

He thinks it was just over a year ago, when Arnold —–

**No**. He’s  _not_  going to think about that. What he’s  _going_  to do, is tie on his robe and answer the door, and tell whoever-it-is to  **leave**.

(Thankfully, the sleeves are long enough to cover his cast, which he fears would’ve made him appear less threatening).

But once he pulls the door open, Kevin thinks it wouldn’t have mattered; because it’s the former Elder Neeley at his doorstep.

Kevin bristles.  

“What the heck do  _you_  want?” he asks, starting to close the door.

“Just to say hi, Kevin,” Neeley responds, using his foot to stop Kevin’s efforts. “It’s been a while.”

“Not long enough.” An  _eternity_  without Neeley wouldn’t be long enough.

Neeley grins; one of those toothy grins that make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It isn’t nice. Kevin wonders why he’s surprised, because Neeley was never very nice.

“You’ve certainly changed.” Neeley places a hand on the door, and gives it a solid push. Kevin stumbles back, his back coming into contact with the small kitchen table. “Me, too; so why don’t we catch up?”

There are seconds that Kevin can’t account for; seconds wherein he  _must_  have walked from the door to the couch, because in the next breath that’s where he is, sitting as Neeley paces the floor.

“I spent so much time  _hating_  you,” Neeley says, sounding angry at himself. “I missed out on what should’ve been the  _best two years of my_   _life_ , hating you! Had I known ——“

Neeley pauses, stops pacing, and inches closer to Kevin. “Had I  _known_ , I would’ve just  _ignored you_  and did what I was sent there to do.  _Help people_ ,” he clarifies, sitting himself down on the coffee table. “God wanted me to  _help people_ , but all I did was  _hurt_  them. I hurt  _you_ , don’t you remember?”

Kevin does; he doesn’t want to, but it’s just one of those things all the time and alcohol in the world can’t erase. He nods, slowly.

“Of course you do; and I’m sorry, Kevin, truly. It’s too little, too late, I know; but it’s not too late for you.”

Gosh, whatever was in that little orange bottle beside his bed must be starting to kick in, because Kevin is having a  _real_  hard time keeping up; and he more-or-less says as much, sinking back into the cushions, to put more space between them. “Um —  _what_?”

“You just don’t get it, Kevin!” Neeley’s voice hitches, and for a second Kevin is afraid he’s going to cry. “I had a chance to be  **happy** , and I gave it up for  _hating_  you!”

Kevin’s eyes widen, before slowly slipping shut. He’s just so tired.

“Oh,” he says,  _maybe_  understanding. “You had a hell dream —-”

Neeley scoffs, reaching to smack Kevin across the face with a pillow, promptly waking him up. “An _eternal_  hell dream’s what I’ve got.” He sighs, and stands from the table. “I just want to save you from the same fate, Kevin; and not just to shorten my  _own_  sentence, but —–“  

Leave it to Neeley to wax poetic just to save his own butt. Kevin waves him away; “Fine, I’ll be  _nicer_ ,” he lies, pushing up from the couch. “Now  **leave**.”

Remarkably, Neeley does; but not before listing off three more so-called  **spirits**  set to annoy Kevin over the course of the night.

Great.

_Annoying in life_ and _death_ , Kevin thinks bitterly, starting to succumb to his exhaustion.  _If I wasn’t so freaking tired, I’d almost be impressed_ …

**Wait**. Since when was Neeley —-

His cellphone starts to ring again.

* * *

Kevin is inside the Missionary Training Center. There’s someone beside him he doesn’t recognize – ethereal, faceless – who points to something in front of them. Kevin doesn’t want to look, but he can’t look away.

Kevin is staring at  _himself_  standing around, watching as all the other missionaries get assigned their companions. His smile is wide, bright,  **optimistic**. Kevin knows his fingers are crossed, and that he’s praying to get sent to Orlando.

_Oh, no_ , he thinks, trying to turn away.

He can’t.

His heart is racing; Kevin knows what’s coming — knows  _who_  is coming, and he doesn’t doesn’t want to see him; it’s been:

“—- three-hundred and sixty-fourdays,” he pleads. “I can’t; I  _can’t_ , I’ve been doing so —- “

_Shhhh_ , says the spirit.

A loud voice from somewhere Kevin can’t see, calls out to his former self: “ **Elder Price**.”

Kevin watches himself step forward; he remembers feeling  _honored_. This had been the moment he’d waited his  _whole life_  for. He’d worked  _so hard_. He’d made everyone  _so proud_.

“Your brother will be:  **Elder Cunningham**.”

Kevin chokes back a sob, and there he is –  **Arnold** ; running up to him; hugging him; talking in his face.

“Oh,” his other self says, trying to look optimistic; “—  **hi**.”

* * *

Kevin starts to feel sick.

_What is the matter_? The spirit asks, glowing brighter.

“Nothing,” Kevin lies, wishing more than anything that he could turn away; “— I just don’t want to see this.”


	4. Arnold

Eleven hours at work, and Arnold still can’t sleep. He was off the clock at 8:41, two minutes before his manager as they closed for the night; he got home, ate some leftovers alone in the kitchen because his parents went to a special Christmas Bible Study (not even the Christmas Eve service; nah, on top of all the  _other_ church stuff happening this week), and pretty much went straight to bed at 10, but he can’t…

“Fuck,” he whispers. At 10:30, his parents came back. The garage opening shook the house. At 11:00, he heard church bells from far, far away creep through the windows, tolling out the hour. They’re back again, now, so without even looking at his phone Arnold knows he’s been laying in bed, trying and failing to sleep, for  _two hours_. “ _ **Fuck**_.”

He sits up, but doesn’t throw off the covers. It’s  **cold** down here in the basement; Arnold grabs for the plush blanket he keeps at the foot of the bed, and wraps it around his shoulders for extra protection. Something is off tonight. It’s not Christmas Eve, so it’s not  _ ~~dread~~_  anticipation. Work was… generally okay. Arnold’s got another shift tomorrow, but then right after is-

The Christmas party.

He never heard back from Kevin about it, and Connor picked up the invitation over a week ago.

 _Remember, no disappointment!_ he ordered.

_Sure, fine. Just make sure he gets it?_

It’s a lot easier to not be disappointed when there’s still a chance something will work out.

Arnold sighs. It’s loud in this makeshift bedroom; concrete walls and storage boxes echo the sound back to him. Mocking him.

 _This is what you get,_  it reminds him.  _You reap what you sow, Elder Cunningham._

_‘Many will teach false doctrine, saying: lie a little and there is no harm in it.’ 2 Nephi 28, verse 9. ‘Their works shall be in the dark. And the blood of the saints shall cry out from the ground against them.’_

Every verse about lying in the Book of Mormon, Arnold’s heard it. Memorized it. Wrote it a hundred times until his hand cramped. Recited it to church leaders, after giving up trying to prove his innocence and aiming for some kind of redemption instead. Not for  **himself** , for his parents; Arnold needed a place to stay.

And, of course, the Cunninghams raised their son  ** _right_**. Their Arnold is a good Mormon boy, and they won’t tolerate anything else in their house, no, Bishop Stevens, we certainly won’t. Yes, Bishop Stevens, Arnold will be punished for his transgressions, you can be sure of that.

 _‘Their works shall be in the dark,’_ and here Arnold is, in the basement of his parents’ house. In the cold; in the dark.

He was going to move in with Kevin. They had a plan; coming back from Uganda, on the plane, they talked about the apartment they were going to have. Star Wars posters up beside Disney ones, right there on the living room walls. Mac and cheese for Kevin, and diet Coke floats for Arnold, any day of the week. A shared car, probably, and long shifts for both of them but they’d work their way up. They’d make it to college. They’d  ** _get_** somewhere.

And then they needed money for down payments. They had to find a place, and with both their parents restricting internet access, it was hard enough just talking to each other. Different houses, different sides of the city, different  _lives_ , eventually. And there was that Christmas party.

Not the kind like Arnold’s going to tomorrow. No, this was a  **real** party, red solo cups the second you entered the door and everything. One girl wore a string of candy-colored lights and not much else. Kevin hummed along to the music.

It was a fun time;  _ **great**_ , even. It was the closest Arnold and Kevin had gotten all year, since the Salt Lake City International Airport. Arnold let himself enjoy it. One cup, two, three- something full of peppermint that Kevin declared disgusting… Arnold remembers laughing, and…

When he woke up, all that was over. Kevin didn’t answer his texts, his calls. He didn’t know if Kevin got home safe, and resorted to calling the Price’s landline.

He was told to never call back; their son had more important things to focus on than 'a companion who led him astray.’

Arnold called Kevin, ready to laugh about  **that**  (because it was  _Kevin’s_ idea to stay, and sometimes laughing is the only thing you can do to ignore how much things hurt), but Kevin never picked up. Arnold doesn’t know how many voicemails he left.

That wasn’t the last time he saw Kevin. No, that was two years ago, and  _ **last year**_ , he broke into Kevin’s apartment. Kevin told him  _you’re lucky I didn’t call the cops._

At  _ **Christmas.**_

Suddenly Arnold’s crying; his body shakes as he sobs.

He just wanted to see his best friend; he wanted to  _apologize_ , to… to  ** _get a second chance_**. Until that moment, he thought maybe Kevin’s parents found out what was at that party and kept Kevin from talking to him, but  **no.** Kevin never wanted to see him again.

Tears make a hot, damp mess of Arnold’s palms when he tries to rub them away. He… he’s got  _work_ in the morning, he can’t think about this now. There’s… Kevin doesn’t think about  **him** like this. Kevin doesn’t  ** _care._**

The blankets go flying as Arnold dives for his phone, dialing Kevin’s number before he can regret it. Dial tone; dial tone; Arnold’s teeth are chattering by the time the voicemail message starts.

A beep sounds.

“I said I’d never do this again,” Arnold says. “After  _every single **effing**  _voicemail I left that you never returned, I said I’d stop calling but I  **can’t**. I tried. I… I made it almost a year without trying to talk to you.

“And now it’s effing midnight and I can’t sleep, and of course it’s because of you. You… you’re such a  _dick,_ Kevin Price. I don’t know what you’re like anymore, but the guy  _ **I knew**_ never would’ve done this to his friends. Even Connor says you’re an asshole, and Connor would give you the moon if you asked. Do you  _know_ how hard it is to… for us, to see…

“I don’t even see you, but  **Connor** does, and you just… Okay, whatever I did,  _f-fine_ ; take that out on me. But Connor? The rest of the guys? Why would you do that? They don’t deserve it. They don’t deserve your shit. They didn’t do anything wrong. They just try to be your  _ **friend**_. If you think after everything we did together they’re not the right  _kind_ of friend, then…” Arnold laughs, and more tears spill over, into his voice. “Then screw you. You need to get your priorities straight.”

A second passes, but this is a voicemail. Arnold is going to run out of time.

“What did I do?” he asks, quietly. “What did I  **do**? I don’t even remember, Kevin, I just- there was that party, and then I woke up covered in booze at that shitty apartment and you were gone. What the  _hell_ could I have done to… for us to… We were gonna move in together! We were best friends, and one… one night was all it took for us to just… for  _you_ to, to  _throw_ it all away.”

He swallows the lump in his throat, and sniffs. It’ll be audible on the voicemail but Arnold doesn’t give a fuck; not now.

“I hate you. I hate you for ever… for coming back in Uganda. You could’ve just… stayed away, gone back to your precious Orlando, and left me  _ **alone**_. And I would’ve had a great church,  **without you**. The people there still would’ve loved me. And when I got back, I wouldn’t have wasted any time thinking you were gonna… we could… we were gonna be okay. Kevin, I thought we were gonna  _make it._ It sucks here, it sucks so much, but  _ **you**_ were gonna be there, and you… I-” Two words  _almost_  make it out, but it’s only midnight; it’s not Christmas yet; there’s no peppermint anything around, and Arnold can still hold them back. “I j-just want my best friend back.”

Arnold hangs up, and lets the phone fall to his lap. Somehow, he falls asleep like that, arms wrapped around himself and his back against the wall of the basement that forms his headboard.


	5. Kevin

_ There is red dirt on his shoes, on his knees, between his fingers. Kevin is on the ground, clawing at it desperately, as he’s dragged behind an overturned truck. He’s screaming; his voice breaks, before leaving altogether. There’s a gun pressed to his temple, and laughter all around him. _

_ The sun starts to set. No one is coming to save him; - not even God. _

“Why are you  _doing_  this?”  _he sobs; both his now and former self._ “What did I  _do_? I’m  _sorry_ , I —–“

This time, Kevin gets to look away; but as his former self is broken, Kevin feels his pain. This was the beginning of the end for him; - then, and now, again.

Kevin falls to his knees as his hands cover his ears, muting everything save for the spirit, who hovers there beside him.

_You blamed him_ , the spirit says.  _Why_?

Kevin’s fist hits the ground; dirt flies up around him, and the laughter starts to fade.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers, crawling towards the image of his former self.  He’s unconscious; Kevin remembers waking up and not knowing where he was, but remembering everything else. He remembers hating God, and Arnold, and — he remembers hating  _himself_.

Kevin wraps his body around the battered boy beneath him; “I’m sorry.”

* * *

The past  **hurts**. It’s easy to understand why people run away from it; why they willingly choose to _forget_. His own is woven of countless painful memories, a blanket of torment that gets wrapped all around him. He struggles against it, trying to break free from the humiliation of the Book’s extraction; of Gotswana laughing in his face, and calling it  **incredible** ; of the feeling of wanting to die –

But he can’t.

He is forced to watch himself give up on God, and then give in so Arnold can get a medal for ruining Kevin’s life.  _That’s bullpoop_! he shouts, when Arnold claims to care about him. “ _That’s bullpoop, Elder, and you know it_.”

Arnold doesn’t disagree.

Kevin’s heart starts to break all over again.

* * *

“There were good times, too,” Kevin says, feeling defeated. “It wasn’t always like that. We had fun; I — he was my  _best friend_.  I remember this one time, we — “

_Yet_ , says the spirit, pressing a finger to Kevin’s lips; –  _those times were few and far between_.

Maybe, but they were worth  _ten times_  what the bad times were; and seeing this all again, Kevin remembers thinking – even then - that the pain had been worth it, because he got a  ** _friend_**  out of it: a _best friend_ ; - his  **only**  friend.

“We pushed our beds together,” Kevin says, staring down towards his hands. “I had trouble sleeping, after everything, and it helped.”

_Arnold helped_ , the spirit clarifies.

“Yes,” agrees Kevin. “He always helped.”

* * *

_It takes three flights, and twenty-six hours, for Kevin to return home from Uganda. While Arnold mopes in the seat beside him, Kevin finds himself staring out the window in eager anticipation. He_ **did** _it, he_ **survived** _, and soon he can start righting all the wrongs that have become his recent life._

_ Arnold seems to be having the opposite problem; it’s the life he’s going back to that’s wrong, and he tells Kevin this while flipping through the few Polaroids of Nabulungi he has in his possession, their plane nearing its imminent decent. _

“You know, you could’ve avoided all this,”  _Kevin says callously, keeping his gaze out the window;_  “– if you would’ve just followed the  _rules_.”

_ He is just as guilty of breaking rules as Arnold is, of course, but neither one of them mentions it. Kevin, because he likes to believe he’s been forgiven for it; and Arnold, because he knows better. _

_ Lights begin to filter through the cloud cover; Kevin’s hand lifts to press against the glass. The window is cool beneath the press of his fingers. Kevin can’t honesty remember the last time he felt cold. _

_Without thinking, he reaches for Arnold’s hand, pulling it over to join his on the window. Nabulungi’s pictures flutter to the ground; oddly, Arnold doesn’t move to pick them up. “_ Feel that, pal?”  _Kevin asks, splaying his fingers over the glass, and over Arnold’s._

_Arnold breathes, holding his own hand very still;_ “—  _yeah_.”

_ There are no further words between them as they land and disembark. Kevin doesn’t know what to say, and Arnold is too busy biting back tears. Kevin thinks the majority of them are for Nabulungi, but selfishly he finds himself hoping that maybe a few are for him as well. After all, they’ve just spent two entire years together, practically stuck at the hip; and now they’re being pulled in separate directions. _

_As they near the escalators, he finds himself reaching out for Arnold’s hand, using it to pull his best friend closer. “_ I’m really gonna miss you _,” he says honestly, his hold around Arnold tightening as he breathes in Arnold’s scent. He smells like sweat and that cheap, strawberry Vo5 shampoo Elder McKinley always kept in the shower. Kevin was never entirely sure how Elder McKinley managed to procure that in Uganda, but – he didn’t want to ask. Some things are better left alone._

_For a minute, Arnold sort of flounders, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides; but when Kevin starts to pull away, Arnold doesn’t let him go._ “It’s not like I’m never gonna see you again _,” he says, sniffing against Kevin’s chest._ “And we’re gonna talk, like, all the time. Provo’s not even an hour away, buddy! I could see you tomorrow if you wanted.”

_It goes without saying that Arnold wants that, and that he wants Kevin to want that, too; so Kevin smiles, and nods;_ “Of course I want that.”

_ Arnold smiles back. _

* * *

“I lied,” Kevin admits, scrubbing a hand over his face. “He was my best friend, but I loved my family  _so much_ , and I  _knew_  they’d only take me back if the old Kevin stepped off that plane, and not the new one.”

_He liked the old Kevin, too_ , the spirit points out.

“No, he didn’t, ‘cause he didn’t even  _know_  that Kevin. He liked the  _idea_  of him; but that — it wasn’t  **me**. Besides, the  _old_  Kevin only ever hurt him. You saw —-”

_I did_ , the spirit agrees.

“I’m starting to doubt that.” Kevin steps forward, watching as his former self is surrounded by his siblings.

He remembers looking over his shoulder, watching as Arnold trailed his parents out of the airport; he remembers the tears that fell from his eyes, and his mother wiping them away with a tissue.

“It’s alright, Kevin,”  _she says, nodding as she dabs at his cheeks_. “We forgive you.”

He remembers feeling numb.

“I want to leave.” They are still standing in Salt Lake International, but now the Price family is gone, and all that remains are the shadows of other people.

_Alright_.

* * *

“I meant, I want to go  ** _home_** ,” Kevin complains, hands tapping against his thighs as he stares up at his college roommate’s parents’ house; “– I didn’t mean  _here_.”

_Oops_ , laughs the spirit.

But Kevin isn’t laughing; he knows why they’re here, and what he’s supposed to see happen – so he can’t understand why that isn’t enough. “The problem’s always been  _me_ ,” he says miserably, gazing over towards the spirt. “That’s what you wanted to show me, right? So why do I have to stand here and watch this?”

_Why not_? Comes the reply, followed by a flash of bright light, and then Kevin is watching himself stand in front of Arnold, who is sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs.

“I’m real glad you’re here, pal,”  _Kevin says, bro-punching Arnold’s shoulder_. “It’s been a long time.”

_ One year and a handful of months, not that Kevin’s been counting. He’s just been busy with school and his part-time job at the library, where he met a real nice girl named Emily. She’s Mormon, like Kevin used to be, and the furthest they’ve gone is holding hands. His entire family adores her - she’s come to dinner a few times now - but she’s never met Arnold and Arnold doesn’t know she exists. Kevin doesn’t want him to. _

“My roommates a complete  **weirdo** _,” he explains, nodding his head towards the brunette rummaging in the freezer;_  “– but he throws awesome parties so he’s forgiven for it. You know I caught him jerking off to Food Network the other day? He was just sitting there, watching Iron Chef, having it off in the common area.”  _Kevin makes a face;_  “—- I can’t even sit on that couch, anymore.”

_ Arnold is smiling, but Kevin isn’t sure he’s paying all that much attention; there are five empty cups on the counter beside him, his cheeks are flushed, and he has this dopey look on his face that Kevin’s never seen before. _

_Well, he’s seen it_ **once** _before; when he caught Arnold and Nabulungi making out in the church they were structuring during a break for lunch. Nabulungi had giggled before wandering off, and Arnold had stared after her, like he was in a daze or something. That’s how he looks right now, only this time that gaze is directed at_ **Kevin** _, and instead of structuring a church, they’re at a college Christmas party, and Arnold is three sheets to the wind._

“You maybe want to slow down, pal? You’re gonna make yourself sick.”  _But Arnold is laughing, and Kevin is realizing just how much he’s missed the sound of it.  Actually, he’s missed everything about Arnold, which is the only reason Kevin finds himself taking his best friend’s hand, and helping him off the counter._

_They end up outside, surrounded by hundreds of twinkling Christmas lights, strung around trees and the columns of the porch. It’s cold and snowing; it would almost be romantic if Kevin was out here with anyone other than Arnold. Still, he finds himself inching closer, until their chests are nearly touching;_ “This music is terrible,”  _he murmurs into Arnold’s hair, an arm looping around his best friend’s waist;_  “— but I’m gonna dance to it, anyway.”

_Kevin is drunk; or – that’s what he tells himself as he starts moving against Arnold, his hips pressing into Arnold’s stomach._  “You’re so  **short** ,”  _he laughs and then slouches a bit, to try and make things easier._

_ He’s never been a very good dancer, but Kevin has just enough rhythm to keep off Arnold’s toes as they move together. Arnold is stumbling, laughing against Kevin’s chest as his plastic cup falls to the floor. Kevin kicks it out of the way, and then everything goes to heck. _

_ Arnold reaches up, takes hold of Kevin’s face, to pull him down. Their noses touch, and then their mouths; Kevin’s eyes slip shut as he tastes the booze on Arnold’s lips. _

_ For a moment, Kevin lets himself be happy, cupping Arnold’s jaw and further deepening their kiss. Arnold moans, and Kevin’s hips jerk forward at the sound. _

_It feels good, perfect, right – it feels how Emily_ **doesn’t** _._

_ He panics. _

“What the heck is  **wrong**  with you _!” he shouts, pushing Arnold away from him. Arnold stumbles back, his back hitting against the wooden porch rail._  “I’m not  **gay** , Arnold! I have a  **girlfriend**!”

_He has a_   **Mormon**   _girlfriend, who his parents love, and who distracted him from all of_   **this**.  _He thought she’d_   **fixed**   _him; he though she was going to be_   **enough**.

“Why’d you have to go and do that, huh?”  _There are tears in his eyes; they slip down his cheeks, as Arnold stares down at his hands;_  “—- why do you always have to  _ruin_   _my life_?”

_Arnold gets sick over the rail._  “I hate you _,” Kevin sobs; but he’s speaking to himself_.

* * *

The spirit is laughing. Kevin feels himself grow angry. None of that was funny; none of this entire night was worth a laugh. If anything, Kevin thinks the spirit should be begging for forgiveness, for making him live through all that  _suffering_  again. Once had been more than enough; the wounds had just started to heal - but now they’ve been ripped open again, and Kevin is bleeding on the floor.

Quite literally.

He’s on his knees, hands splayed over the hardwoods. Angry tears fall in drops on the floor, between his fingers, and beside the blood that drips from his nose. His head hurts; his heart hurts; and his pride is more than wounded.  

_ It’ll get worse, before it gets better; but it will get better, Kevin, I promise. _

Anger bubbles up through his grief; but when Kevin lifts his head to argue, the spirit is gone.

Kevin wonders how it could possibly get  **worse**.

His phone starts to ring.

It’s on the floor a few feet in front of him; but by the time Kevin gets it in his hands, the ringing has stopped.

_ 1 MISSED CALL FROM: ARNOLD _

He has a voicemail. His finger hovers over the button to play it; but before it gets a chance to press, the phone is being kicked out of his hand, and someone who looks suspiciously like Connor in a pink cashmere sweater, is kneeling down before him.

“We’ll get to that,” he says, jabbing Kevin in the shoulder; “— in  _due time_ ; I don’t have much of that, though, so we really must be going.”

“— Connor?” he asks, squinting.

“Oh,  _goodness_ , no,” the person who looks suspiciously like Connor says. “ _He’s_  from the past;  _I’m_  from the  **present**.”

“Oh  _good_ ,” Kevin mutters, disappointed. At least  _Connor_  would’ve let him have a drink (or five) before subjecting him to further mental torment. “Let’s get this over with.”


	6. Arnold

It feels like a hangover, waking up after a night like  _that._ But you don’t get the  **fun** part, beforehand, and you’re left with all the memories. Even if Arnold wasn’t, his phone would stand as proof he called Kevin at 12:24 AM, and he hasn’t gotten a call back. He doesn’t expect one at this point, though. He doesn’t even obsessively check to see if Kevin’s calling, as he gets ready for work, like he used to. No. Arnold knows Kevin won’t listen. It makes the remembering easier.

Arnold doesn’t  _ **want**_  to remember what a hangover feels like. He hasn’t had one in two years, and he’d really like to  _keep_  it that way, especially since this one is just because of the emotional, sleep-deprivation-fueled meltdown he had last night. He’s done with that. He’s  **done**  with aching and hurting and suffering because of  _Kevin Price._ He’s-

“Who pissed in your cereal?”

Arnold’s hand smacks the side of a shelf as he whirls around to face Lisa.

“How the f- why do you have to sneak up on me?” he asks in return.

She shrugs. “Nothing else to do. Now answer the question.”

“What do you think?” Arnold asks. There’s a cart full of stuff he’s supposed to stick back on the shelves right beside him; with a wave of his throbbing hand, he gestures to all of it. “Besides, the  _Christmas party’s_  today.”

“You got something against Christmas parties?”

“I’ve got something against staying at work, hours after my shift, to listen to Frank bitch-” Arnold stumbles over the profanity, mentally kicking himself. “-about how bad sales are this quarter. I mean, you know? It’s not like it’s actually gonna be  _ **good**_ or anything.”

Lisa leans up against the aisle wall. “Your plus one can’t make it, huh.”

Arnold turns to look at her. “Who says I was gonna have a plus one?”

All she has to do is narrow her eyes, and Arnold is laughing in the horrible, awkward way that grates on his own ears, and for sure everyone else’s.

“I mean, that’s not the  **only** reason Christmas parties suck,” he says. “They’re kind of- I mean, don’t we get enough Christmas  _outside_ of them? And, like, no offense, but just ‘cause I work here doesn’t mean I wanna stick around when I’m not getting paid.”

“Was it going to be Kevin Price?”

“Yeah. Huh? Wait, what, how did you-?”

“Don’t play dumb, Cunningham. You talk about Kevin Price more than anything but Disney’s treatment of  _Star Wars_ , come on. You haven’t seen the guy in  ** _years_** ; why the hell did you think he’d come now?”

“ _A_ year,” Arnold mutters. A bag of binder clips and three canisters of pushpins find their places back on the shelves of aisle 9 before he adds “I figured an invitation couldn’t  _ **hurt**_.”

“You haven’t seen this guy for a  **year** ,” Lisa repeats. “So you invite him to your shitty job’s Christmas party? And you  _actually_  think he’s going to show up?”

“Look, did you have a reason for coming over here? Or are you just- I dunno, screwing with me? ‘Cause I didn’t get much sleep last night, and I’m kinda  _fed up_ , Lisa.” Arnold points at her, but it’s got to be the furthest thing from intimidating; the bags under his eyes this morning were about the color of a two-day-old bruise, and he spilled coffee on his uniform. “I don’t wanna talk about this.”

“Why don’t you give up on him?” she asks, point blank. Arms folded, face cold; Arnold has  ** _no clue_**  why she wants to know, but she’s not leaving without an answer. Overpriced floral notebook in hand, Arnold sighs.

“He’s hot,” she continues, before he can say a word. “You guys worked together in your church, or whatever; he was your best friend. But he’s an asshole, so why even try and keep him around.”

Arnold shakes his head. “He’s not an asshole,” he says. His hands tremble as he sets the notebook back on the shelf, but snow is coming down diagonally outside the glass sliding doors. No one is going to come in, and no one is here  ** _now._** Lisa opened this can of worms. He might as well answer. “Look, I don’t care what you think about him, or me, or whatever. But he’s not an asshole. He’s a good guy who had it rough.”

“Yeah, a lot of people-”

“Kevin isn’t a lot of people,” Arnold snaps. “You find me  _anybody_  else who could go through what he did and come out even  **remotely**  okay. He- you should’ve seen him, when we first got kicked out of our church. He was… literally, the perfect Mormon. The MTC, his ward, everybody- they all  _loved_ him, and then… that all went away. ‘Cause I-”

Arnold turns to her. “He was my first friend, okay? And he  ** _stuck_** with me, even after  **I** messed everything up, and you have  _no idea_ what that’s like. I dunno what happened between then and  **now,** but whoever Kevin is, he  _was_ that guy who forgave everything, and said  _I_ helped  ** _him._** That’s the guy I invited to this party, because he…”

He didn’t listen to Arnold’s voicemail. He never wants to see Arnold again. Whatever he  **was** , he isn’t that now.

But what happened in the past isn’t gone. And- “Kevin isn’t an asshole.”

Lisa raises her hands and rolls her eyes. “Sorry I asked,” she mutters. Arnold turns his back, to better fish the pen packets out of the bottom of the cart, and listens as Lisa walks away.

The Christmas party is tonight, and Arnold is going to be alone.

“He didn’t deserve that,” he whispers to himself. The words are said, though, and Arnold… he can’t bring himself to regret them. Not even after last night.

He sighs, just as the automatic doors to the store slide open and Arnold has to look like he’s working again. Only five more hours until the party, at least. Seven until he can go curl up in bed, and spend all of Sunday there. Yeah; that’s starting to sound pretty good.


	7. Kevin

“Out of all the stuff going on in my life, you bring me to a  _Staples_.” Kevin scrubs a hand over his face, sighing as the wind whips snow around their ankles; “— what the heck for?”

“That is for  _me_  to know,” the spirit recites, holding up a finger; “– and  _you_  to find out.”

Kevin shuffles his feet, hugging his arms around himself, even though he can’t feel the cold. “I don’t really like surprises.”

The spirit lifts a hand to its chest, looking suitably affronted. “ _Everyone_  likes surprises! No – I  _refuse_  to believe it!”

“Believe what you want.” Kevin shrugs; “— but I’ve had enough surprises to last a lifetime.”

The spirit smiles at this, reaching out for Kevin’s hand, and tugging him towards the doors. “I should think there’s room for a  _small_  one,” it says, pulling Kevin into the hum of fluorescent lights. “Or not so small,” he adds gently, when  _that_   _laugh_  echoes throughout the store.

“Is this some sort of sick joke?” Kevin whispers sharply, jerking his hand away; he rubs at his wrist.

“Oh, Kevin,  _no_.” The spirit shakes its head pityingly, reaching to stroke Kevin’s cheek. “This is life.”

“But it isn’t  _mine_ ,” he says, conscious of the urgency in his voice. “It’s  _Arnold’s_. This has  **nothing**  to do with me, so  _why are we here_? I don’t –”

The spirit wraps its arms around Kevin’s waist and hugs him from behind. “I need a new day-planner,” it whispers into Kevin’s ear; “– they’re in  **Aisle 9**.”

So is Arnold.

And seeing Arnold again after so long knocks the wind out of Kevin, a bit. He looks the same, except maybe a little more tired, and a lot less alive - thanks to the bruises under his eyes, that make it look like Arnold hasn’t slept in a week. Kevin remembers him looking like that in Uganda a lot; when writing his Book was more important than taking care of himself.

_Because he’d be okay once he left_ , Kevin remembers Arnold saying;  _but **they** wouldn’t be; not unless he finished_.

“What do you think about this one?” The spirit asks, holding up a purple book with a floral design; “– too much?”

Too much? No –  _Too much_  was the feeling in Kevin’s stomach, whenever Arnold was around.  _Too much_ was the warmth in his cheeks, whenever Arnold smiled, laughed, or even breathed.  _Too much_  was the feel of Arnold’s mouth against his own, after so much  _wanting_.

“No,” Kevin says, unable to take his eyes off Arnold; “– it’s perfect.”

The spirit hums, satisfied, and Kevin starts to pay more attention. It’s been  **one year**  since Kevin last spoke to Arnold;  **one year**  since he answered Arnold’s texts, or listened to his voice mails;  **one year** \- 365 freaking days - and yet Arnold doesn’t hesitate to say:  _He’s a good guy who had it rough. He was my first friend. He was the guy that forgave everything, and said I helped him. He stuck with me._

_ He’s not an asshole. _

Except for how he _is._

“I  _am_  an asshole,” Kevin finds himself saying, taking a slow step forward. “Arnold, I  _am_! I  _am_  an asshole!”

The last thing Kevin said to Arnold was  _I hate you_. The first thing Kevin said to him was “ _oh, hello_ ” with disappointment on his face. In the middle of all that, there were countless  _buddy_ ’s and  _pal_ ’s and  _you’re my best friend_ ’s – but there were never any  _thank you_ ’s, or  _I need you in my life_ ’s, or —-

“I love you.”  

—- Yeah; there were never any of  _those_.

Kevin brings a hand up to his mouth just a second too late.

“Don’t worry, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, if it makes you  _feel_  better.” The spirit smirks, flipping through the day-planner as it leans against a shelf. Arnold leaves the aisle, moving out of sight. And Kevin chokes back a sob. 

“Well — I think we can leave, now; I got what I came for.” 

Kevin thinks that he has, too.

* * *

The spirit leaves Kevin in his bedroom, after rattling his pill bottle, and petting Kevin’s hair as he swallows down two more. “You’ve had a long night,” it says, nuzzling into Kevin’s neck; “– but don’t worry; it’s almost over.”

Almost; - but  _not yet_.

Kevin closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Elder Neeley is back, standing over him, and looking remarkably bored.

“ _Finally_ ,” he sighs, grabbing a handful of Kevin’s shirt, and pulling him out of bed. “Now c’mon, I’ve been waiting all night for this.”

* * *

At nineteen years old, Kevin Price had his whole entire life planned out. He’d go on a successful mission, come home to loud applause, and then go to college on a full, academic scholarship. He’d graduate with honors, and with a respectable job lined up, before the ink even dried on his diploma. He’d find a nice girl, get married, and become a father - once, twice,  _three times_ , before deciding enough is enough. They’d go to Orlando as a family. He’d finally get a dog.

He’d be  _happy_.

That was the future he  _wanted_ ; but it’s not the future he  _gets_.

The future he gets consists of a thankless job, years of therapy, and a loveless marriage. He isn’t happy, but Kevin watches himself  _try_  to be, and it hurts when he consistently fails. He applies for better jobs, and doesn’t get them. So he tries for children, and doesn’t get those either. The only thing he  _does_ get is a wife he’s not in love with, and the suffocating house he grew up in.

“God, you’re  _pathetic_ ,” Neeley snickers, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

Kevin glowers, sliding his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, so they don’t end up around Neeley’s neck. He opens his mouth to say —  _something_ ; but closes it upon realizing he can’t disagree.

“Oh, look!” Neeley drops his popcorn, grabbing onto Kevin’s shoulders, instead, to turn him around. They watch as his future self leaves the house. “Let’s follow you. Twenty bucks says you’re off to the bar, again.”

But Neeley is wrong; and as Kevin’s future Subaru pulls into the parking lot at Staples, Kevin wishes he hadn’t been.

They follow himself into the store, Kevin’s own hands shaking as he’s basked in a familiar, fluorescent light.  _It’s been a long time_ , he tells himself; -  _Arnold isn’t here anymore, so **relax**_.

But Arnold  _is_  there, hefting boxes of printer paper onto wobbly shelves, as Kevin goes to grab one.

“Oh, sorry,” his future self says, as their hands brush together. He sounds tired; “I just needed to —–“

It’s hard, watching the next few seconds unfold. Arnold goes very still, and then slowly turns to look at Kevin, who starts to back away.

“Arnold,” he says, clutching at the box like a lifeline. “What are you —– what are you  _doing_  here?”


	8. Arnold

Arnold really knows he looks like shit when his manager (not Frank, but practically his twin, when it comes to work policy and all around negativity) tells him he can go home at break.   
“Catch up on some sleep,” the manager tells him, with a friendly pat on the back. “Get back in time for the Christmas party, though. Corporate is militant about those.”

Fantastic; so Arnold isn’t going to get paid  _and_ he still has to go to the Christmas party. He wonders, driving back, if ‘I slept through my alarm’ would be a good enough excuse to not show up afterwards. If it is, he could actually  **do something**  with these remaining hours, then sleep through the party; no muss, no fuss. Not too bad of a day.

He doesn’t think for a second he’ll be able to fall asleep in the middle of the day. Insomnia  ** _sucks_** , yeah, but Arnold has never done well with naps.  
To make his excuse more plausible, though, he’s going to give it a good-faith effort. He strips out of his uniform, dons his comfiest t-shirt and pajama pants, and crawls into bed, with every intention of getting up in ten minutes.

That… doesn’t happen.

*****

Arnold opens his eyes, and this is not his bedroom. Not his old one, nor his parents’ basement. It’s… small. Kind of ugly. Not very warm. Completely unfamiliar.

He gets up, goes to the bathroom, blinks at his reflection in the mirror. He thinks he’s facing his  **dad** for a second, if his dad was fatter and younger and had Uncle Josh’s awful hair, but- Arnold yawns, and so does the reflection.

_What the hell?_

His hands come up to scrub at his face. Geez- he looks  ** _awful._** But the face in the mirror isn’t fazed. The body it’s attached to wanders back into the bedroom, over to a closet overflowing with clothes piled on the floor. Arnold wants to look around (he can’t; it’s like his body won’t respond) to see if there’s a dresser anywhere, but he’s pretty sure this is it. These are the clothes this version of him has. That’s… huh.   
Out of the mess, his hands tug-

 _No way,_ he thinks.  _There is no way I’m still working there._

It’s a Staples uniform.

Things get a little hazy; Arnold can’t focus. But nothing looks different, except the place he’s in, from his before-work routine. This apartment is new, but, otherwise… nothing has changed.

 _No,_ he thinks.  _No, no, no, no._

This can’t be the life he’s living.

He spills coffee on his shirt, getting into the car. His older self (that’s who this has to be, no matter how much revulsion Arnold feels to the idea) doesn’t even  **care**. He just… he curses, and shrugs, and dabs at it with some McDonald’s napkins nabbed from the pile of trash in the passenger seat. It’s the same car Arnold has now.

Arnold - the younger Arnold, the one he  _is_ \- has to keep swallowing down nausea and an aching lump in his throat, as he - the older Arnold, the one he  _ **isn’t**_  - takes the same route to work (minus a detour; Arnold sees construction down the road), parks in the same spot (straddling the crack splitting the parking lot asphalt, which is a whole lot worse than he remembers), and enters through the same front doors he entered this morning.

The store isn’t the same.

Arnold wishes it could be; it’s smaller. Condensed. The apathetic,  _pathetic_  air of the place is stronger now, with empty shelves lining the perimeter of the store. Corporate probably can’t afford to stock them.

Something sticks in the back of Arnold’s mind, as he clocks in and does the opening paperwork his managers used to (no,  **did** ; they did it this morning). It’s… like a splinter, almost, bothering him but not quite hurting. Except it keeps getting worse. The longer he stays in this half-empty store, with everything he sees a little clouded, a little out-of-focus, the more antsy his mind gets inside this body. The feeling, the something, starts to solidify and take shape: Arnold needs to get out of here. Something is coming, and it’s going to really,  _ **really**_  hurt.

The automatic sliding doors open. It’s too late.

Footsteps approach. Arnold’s older body doesn’t turn around; he’s too busy stocking, not paying attention to whatever this is, this-   
Someone clears their throat, and grabs some paper as soon as Arnold slides in a stack beside it.

Arnold’s hand touches  _his_  - and everything comes into painful, visceral focus.

It’s Kevin Price. Older, not fatter or uglier. Every imperfection on his face - are those worry lines on his forehead? - is highlighted, like some kind of HD futuristic TV playing a sick futuristic movie.

Inside his own head, Arnold laughs; he didn’t think even his imagination was  _this_ good.

It takes Kevin a second. Lines form between his eyebrows, as his gaze flicks over Arnold’s face; then they release, and fade away, as his jaw drops. Then a look Arnold  **never**  wants to see fills his eyes as he  ** _backs away_** , and asks  _What are you doing here?_

 _What am I doing here_ , Arnold’s older self thinks.  _As if I ever left._

And that- that is so bitter it’s  **painful**. If Arnold could, he’d be clutching at his head, trying to get that thought  _ **out**_. But he and this future are melded closely now, after that touch, and he’s the one opening his mouth to answer, more guarded and defensive than he - his older self, who’s trying to sound tough and like he doesn’t care, oh god - means to: “My job.”

Arnold wants to throw up, and it looks like Kevin does, too. Always the good guy, Kevin Price; always so  _pitying_  of those  _ **less fortunate**_. It looks like Arnold counts as that, now.

His older self is irritated (tired, sad, so painfully  **hurt** ) because he can’t kick Kevin out. Figures and projections speed through Arnold’s head, and he gets the general gist that they need the sale - just one box of paper, geez - too bad for that.

This is a nightmare.

In an instant, Arnold knows everything Kevin has done, said, felt,  _wanted_  in the past ten years. He’s married now. He has a house, a  **job**  - the type of job Arnold would have killed for, in the present, where he could sit down and have time left to volunteer somewhere, money left to send to Kitgali - he and  ** _Emily_**  have been trying for kids. He feels Kevin’s pain, because it never works, and they’re nowhere rich enough to afford  _in vitro_. He sees therapy sessions, hours upon hours, and exercises and thought-patterns that bring progress so slow it’s agonizing. He sees the cheerful smile Kevin used to wear,  _ **no matter what**_ , give way to something that’s not even remotely believable.

Arnold feels Kevin become a broken man.

But- but  _why?_ Arnold doesn’t feel that. He doesn’t know how Kevin got here, how  **he** got here, how the both of them got to the point of staring at each other in the middle of Staples at 3:57 on a Thursday afternoon, in- it’s Christmas. There’s the familiar ornament-shaped window decals, Arnold remembers them now, from walking in. How did Kevin  _ **get**_ here?

It must have been something before… before all these years. A final straw or breaking blow on top of everything from Uganda, something…   
Arnold really hates himself sometimes.  _Why_  is he still worrying about Kevin, Kevin’s future,  **Kevin’s**  damage, when he’s… when he’s like this?

“It’s no problem, sir,” Arnold makes himself say, a belated response to Kevin’s tired apology. “Is there anything else I can help you find?”

Kevin clutches his box closer and shakes his head.

Arnold rings him up at the front counter. He doesn’t say anything, and neither does Kevin. This is what they’ve come to; in all those years, Arnold must have given up. Kevin must have… but Arnold knew that. He knew Kevin wouldn’t try and talk to him again. But that was both ten years ago and  **now,** so the pain of knowing and the pain of being here are both present, full, and strong in Arnold’s chest. He has to fight back getting choked up as he reads off Kevin’s total.   
Things are getting unfocused again as he hands over the receipt. Arnold hears himself rattle off some rehearsed speech about filling out the survey for a chance to win, and Kevin turns to go.

“It’s-” Arnold starts. What can he say, though?  _Nice to see you? ****_Good _to see you? **Horrible** , awful, painful; it’s a mistake that you came in here_? “-pretty cold out,” he finishes. “Uh… drive safe.”

Before Kevin can walk out, everything goes black.

Arnold is in his apartment again, but it’s dark out. The one window in the living room shows the streetlights reflecting off the windows of the building next door, and Arnold is putting up Christmas decorations. There’s… there’s a couple of two-liter bottles in the kitchen, beside a bag of Doritos and some stronger drinks. A sudden wave of relief hits Arnold - the younger one, the… the real one. He must have  _ **friends**_ in this future, even if they’re not Kevin. He’s got somebody, and they’re coming over tonight.   
His fingers fumble with the decorations. He’s in a hurry, for some reason, and he keeps checking his phone. There’s ice cream in the freezer, Arnold realizes, and a cake or something in the fridge. Is this a party?

It’s seven o’clock. Arnold glances at the door every few seconds.

“They’re gonna be here, any minute,” he mutters. “Like, any minute. Really.”

The blue-pink-yellow lights he strung up over the archway to the kitchen fall. Seven fifteen, and he’s gotten them back up and onto their hook, but no one has knocked on the door. Arnold gets the cake out of the fridge, and opens the freezer. He stands there for a second, just looking at the ice cream. Then he checks his phone again. No new messages.

He closes the freezer door, and the ice cream stays in.

He peeks out of the door, into the hallway, then out of the hallway to the stairs, then out the door to the building. A laughing couple makes him duck out of the way, but nobody else appears. Arnold, in a button-up shirt Arnold doesn’t recognize, starts to shiver.

It’s almost 7:45 by the time Arnold finishes making phone calls, all ending in voicemail box greetings. He doesn’t leave any messages.   
Eight o’clock. Arnold is sitting hunched over in an armchair in the living room. He made a circle: the armchair, the ratty sofa, two wooden chairs from the little kitchen area, and three metal fold-up chairs from the bedroom closet. The chairs are all empty; the cake is back in the fridge.   
There’s laughter in the hallway.

Then a knock on the door. Someone tries the doorknob, and it turns. Connor McKinley sticks in his head.

“Hello!” he greets, smiling. “I just thought I’d… drop in…” He looks around. A second later, and he’s murmuring something to a man Arnold just gets a glimpse of, on the other side of the door. Connor walks in, and closes the door behind him.

He’s got a ring on his fourth finger, and something nice and settled about his eyes. He’s got a pudge Arnold doesn’t remember, but otherwise he’s unchanged. Good old District Leader McKinley.

He takes a seat in one of the metal folding chairs, and rests a hand on Arnold’s shoulder.

“So,” he starts.

“Nobody showed up,” Arnold interrupts.

“Arnold,” Connor says gently, “it is the 23rd. It’s… a little close to Christmas to have a District 9 reunion, don’t you think?”

Arnold doesn’t answer.

“You didn’t really think people would… that today would be the  _best_ day…”

“I got food,” Arnold says, waving towards the kitchen. “Cake, and stuff. You can… have some.”

“Oh, no, thank you,” Connor answers. “Matt and I- we’ve got- I’m just dropping by.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Arnold…” Connor starts, but Arnold can see, he’s trying to find something comforting, and he’s coming up short.

“Yeah,” Arnold says. “I did think people would show up. I thought-” His voice cracks.

Connor pulls him into a hug.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asks, after not long enough.

Arnold nods.

Connor sighs. “Good,” he says. “Then… I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, you’ve got to… you’ve got your…”

“Yes. I’ll call later, how about?”

“Sure,” Arnold answers.

Connor gets up and walks back to the door. Arnold follows a second too late, like he doesn’t know what else to do with himself.

“Merry Christmas, Arnold.”

“Hey, yeah, merry… merry Christmas.”

A smile from Connor, then the door shuts. Connor and his husband start talking on the other side.

“What’s going on?” Matt asks.

“Arnold, he just… he’s not… no one came to his little  _thing_ , and it’s just… I feel sorry for him, I do, but… I really can’t blame them.”

Their voices fade. Arnold’s back hits the door.

Everything goes black again, as he hears himself cry.


	9. Kevin

Arnold’s back hits the door. Kevin isn’t close enough to hear what’s being said outside of it, but he knows it’s nothing good. Arnold is crying; and Kevin hasn’t seen Arnold cry, since —–  _ever_.

It hurts. Out of  _everything_  Kevin has seen tonight, this, right here, hurts the worst.

His past, and the pain of being broken; his present, and the pain of living a lie; his future, and the pain of having nothing – those don’t matter. Not when his best friend, his only friend - in the whole entire world - is crying on the floor.

But maybe it isn’t fair to call Arnold that, anymore.

Maybe it was never fair.  

There is no sound when Kevin drops to his knees, on the floor. Not in Arnold’s world, anyway, because he doesn’t move, doesn’t look up, doesn’t stop crying. Not even when Kevin reaches out to cup Arnold’s face, to stroke it adoringly.  

_What happened to you_?

“What happens to him?” Kevin turns his head to look at Neeley, who is perched on the back of Arnold’s couch; his heels tap against the back of it –  _tap tap tap_  – as he shrugs, and smiles uselessly.

“What do you  _think_  happens to him?” Neeley asks, his hands rubbing over the curve of his knees. “Probably that; but a whole lot worse, if I had to imagine.”

Kevin feels himself grow angry. He wants to shout at Neeley, to blame him for his part in all this; but as his mouth starts to open, his hand lifts to cover it, and all that comes out is a sob.

This isn’t Neeley’s fault, nor is it Connor’s. It’s  _Kevin’s_. Because Kevin should be here; and not because Arnold invited him, but because Kevin  **lives**  here and  **loves**  here, and  **dreams**  of starting a family here. Here, in this tiny, cold, unremarkable apartment; because it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

“It doesn’t  _have_  to be like this.” Kevin clings to Arnold; he is no longer looking at Neeley, or Arnold, or anywhere, really. He has seen more than enough; “—- right?”

Silence.

Seconds pass; a moment too long. Kevin reluctantly let goes of Arnold and stands, marching over towards the couch. His hands are balled into fists at his sides. He lifts one, swings and misses. Neeley laughs, and topples back onto the seat of the couch. “Don’t be mad at  _me_ , Kevin,” he snickers, clutching at his stomach; “— this is all on  **you** , buddy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Kevin shouts; “– you don’t get to call me that!”

A noise from behind them prompts Kevin to turn around; Arnold is holding his phone, staring down at it, as tears trail down his cheeks. Kevin steps closer, hovers over Arnold, and stares at that phone – at his contact info, from before he was married; from before his whole entire life when to shit.

Arnold deletes it.

But Kevin sees him hesitate, right before.

Kevin has never hated himself more than he does in that moment; because after years of being rejected, hurt, lied to, ignored – Arnold  _still hesitates_. Kevin doesn’t deserve him. Kevin doesn’t deserve him, or a life with him, or his love, or — or anything, really. But boy, does he  **want**  it.

He’s wanted it for a long time; since Uganda, probably, but it was easy to ignore there, because Arnold had Naba, and Arnold was happy. But then he didn’t have her anymore, he only had Kevin; and they shared so many dreams and so many promises. They were supposed to finish college together, get an apartment together, get jobs, and spend countless years together. Maybe Arnold wanted more, maybe he didn’t; but Kevin did – does – will always.

“You know what it’s like,” Kevin says, wrapping his arms around his waist. “It’s not so easy; I —- I was scared, and then I got  _angry_ , because I had to  _choose_  between him and my family. I shouldn’t  _have_  to choose.  _No one_  should have to choose. But I  **do** ; I  **did** ; I —- I made the wrong choice.“

Kevin chose his family. He chose a thankless job, and a boring wife.

He did not choose himself.

“I want to make the right choice,” he says, aware of the pleading tone of his voice. “I need too. I can’t live this life; I can’t do this; look at all the people I hurt; look at all the lives I ruin; look at — look at  _him_.”  Kevin kneels in front of Arnold again, cupping his face, and wishing he could feel it. “I want to choose _this_  life; I want to  _laugh_  with him, when people don’t show up, ‘cause none of you really liked us, anyway; I want to wake up next to my best friend; I want to send letters to my family, that I know will get returned; I want — I want  **Arnold**.

“ _Please_  tell me I can have him;  _please_  tell me I can have this life! I can fix this, right? He doesn’t — he can’t  _hate_  me.”

Neeley only shrugs, re-perching himself on the back of the couch.

“He can’t,” Kevin says again; “— he  _doesn’t_. He  _still_  doesn’t, after  _all_  this; and this — this isn’t  _me_ , anymore. This doesn’t have to happen; I just — I have to go home. I have to see him. I have to show him that I’ve  _changed_.”

Neeley grins; “But we haven’t even seen the best part, yet.”

“I don’t  **want**  to see it!” Kevin’s voice is loud, desperate. “ _Please_ , give me one more chance! I won’t make the same mistakes again! I’m sorry!”

_I don’t want to see it_.  _I don’t. I can’t. I_  —–

Kevin startles awake.

He is on the floor of his bedroom, with his iPhone just out of reach. The tips of his fingers brush against it, only pushing it further away.

There is a cast on his arm; pink, and with  _Connor McKinley_  scribbled on it, in deep-purple ink.

Everything hurts.

It takes him a while, but eventually Kevin gets himself upright, head spinning as his phone starts to ring again. He reaches for it, his hand shaking so violently, he nearly drops it twice.

“Hello?” His voice is rough with sleep. There is drool on his cheek and on his chin, which he wipes away with the collar of his shirt.

“Geez, Kevin! I’ve been calling you for hours!” It’s Connor, and he sounds unusually frantic. “I was afraid you overdosed! I almost had Brian drive me back over there!”

“Oh, um.” Kevin blinks; his vision remains bleary. “I’m okay.”

He blinks again. Once, twice, three times – and then everything becomes a bit  _clearer_ ; even his head.

Arnold. It’s the 23rd. The day of his “Christmas party,” Kevin chokes out, clearing his throat, before trying again. “Arnold’s, it’s — it’s  **today** , right?”

A pause, and then: “Well, I  _hardly_  had a chance to look at the invitation before you crumpled it up, but yes; I think so.”

Then it’s not too late. Kevin breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks, I — I gotta go.”

“Kevin, wait —–!”

But Kevin hangs up, and stands up, and stumbles towards his bathroom where he splashes cold water over his face and nicks his jaw while shaving. He brushes his teeth, pomades his hair into place, and then buttons himself into his jacket. He’s still wearing his pajamas, but Kevin doesn’t care – he’s running out of time.   

It’s nothing short of a miracle that he doesn’t get pulled over on his way to Staples, considering how many traffic laws he breaks, in his rush to get there.

To make things right.

To  _apologize_.

There are still cars in the parking lot; that — that’s  **good** ; that means people are there.

_Arnold_  is there; Kevin recognizes Mr Cunningham’s silver Buick.

The pink of his cast peeks out from the sleeve of his jacket, and as Kevin gets closer to the automatic doors, he starts to grow nervous. What if Arnold doesn’t want to see him? What if Arnold won’t forgive him? What if it’s just too late?

He barges in, with his head held high, even though it has no right to be. It’s eerily quiet in there, save for the hum of the lights; until, like his dream,  _that laugh_  echoes loudly through the space. Kevin follows it, weaving through aisles and carts and holiday displays, until he makes it to the back of the store, where there’s a table, and pizza, and people, and —-

“ **Arnold**!”

Everything goes quiet. Kevin can hear his pulse in his ears.

Arnold goes very still; and then, very slowly, turns around.

It’s weird seeing Arnold again after a whole, entire year. It kicks the wind out of Kevin, a bit. He opens his mouth to say — something; but then closes it, when people start to stare.

He thumbs over his shoulder, instead.

“I need paper,” he says dumbly. “ **Right now** , Arnold, please.”


	10. Arnold

Arnold wakes up like coming up out of frigid water: gasping, breathless, and blinking fast. The world spins into focus as he shoves his glasses back on, and- it’s not that crummy apartment. It’s not Staples. It’s not any place Arnold dreamed about. It’s Arnold’s parents’ basement. He runs to the bathroom upstairs, then. Actually  **runs** , feet pounding against the hollow stairs and echoing off the walls. It’s  _himself_ he sees in the mirror, the way he looked this morning: fat and ugly, but young. Not aged by ten years and what happened in them. Tired, still; wide and red-eyed (his manager will probably think he spent the time getting stoned instead of sleeping), but  ** _not old._**

Arnold brings his hand up to brush his stubbled cheeks, and the reflection in the mirror does the same - disbelieving and hopeful and  _young._

Arnold laughs. 

But duty calls, and the Christmas party is in less than half an hour, and Arnold uses every second to try and look at least  _decent_. His future self may not have cared about anything like that, but this Arnold, here and now,  **does**. He  ** _cares_** , and he doesn’t want to turn into a person who stops caring. He doesn’t want to become who he saw in that dream. 

“You know that means you need to move on,” he tells himself, one arm into the red button-up he’s allowed to wear for the party. His reflection blinks back, like it doesn’t agree. “Move on. Forget- forget about  _him_.“ 

Does he have to, though? Is moving on the same as giving up? The Kevin in Arnold’s dream looked  ** _miserable_** , and that… that hurt. Is that the person Kevin is going to be? 

Maybe Arnold could try and talk to him; one last time. 

Not right now, though - now, Arnold glances at his phone and  _shit_ , he’s going to be **late**. 

* * *

Arnold makes it to Staples right when the party is supposed to start. Some party, though; the pizza is pretty much the best part, and that’s  _only_ because it’s Dominos. He jogs in from the far reaches of the parking lot, huffing and puffing, but he  **really** shouldn’t have bothered. Lisa raises her hand in greeting, and Frank marks down Arnold’s name on a sign-in sheet, but nobody else seems to care. A lot more people come in  _after_  him, anyway. 

Everyone looks bored. Arnold grabs a plate of food; mostly candy-cane frosted cookies and some potato chips. Two carrot sticks, for luck. He nibbles through the carrots, the pile of chips, and one of the cookies before his last manager comes in. Downs a cup of Seven-Up. The guy Arnold sometimes opens with stumbles in, reeking of pot; Arnold fidgets with the Santa hat he fetched out of the Cunningham Christmas decoration bins as Frank chews him out, glancing around for some place to go that’s not as close to the door. Lisa shakes her head when he makes eye contact, but that’s enough to send him meandering over to her side. 

"So, uh-" 

"No, Cunningham." 

"What?”

“There’s no mistletoe around." 

It takes Arnold a second. But when he gets it, he gags as loudly and obnoxiously as he can, keeping both hands up and between them. 

” _Eww_!” he says. “That’s  ** _gross_** , Lisa." 

She rolls her eyes. "What are you, twelve?" 

"You’re the one who suggested it! When I was twelve I probably wouldda  _tried_ that, but I wasn’t even  **thinking**  it." 

"You’re not the kind of romantic dumbass who’d put up mistletoe and try to kiss someone?" 

"Well, uh… I didn’t say that.” Arnold laughs, wincing. 

Lisa really  _does_ have an admirable eye roll. Arnold wishes he could show that much disdain in one move, but he doesn’t have any practice. The church doesn’t like stuff like that, and- 

“Hey, Lisa, where’re you from, anyway?” he asks. “You’re… not a Mormon." 

She snorts. In the background, Arnold hears footsteps approach. He barely even notices - it’s gotta be another late coworker, probably somebody he’s never seen before - because he’s actually really curious and what better place than a lame Christmas party for small talk, and he’s just starting to lose the jitters from that dream, and maybe he can actually have a good time here, when- 

His name rings out, and everyone around turns to stare at him. Everyone. His bosses; Lisa; every person in the store, and Arnold doesn’t want to turn around. He doesn’t, he doesn’t at all, it’s going to be another sick dream and Arnold  _can’t_ … 

But, really, what can he do? Stay perfectly still and hope K- nobody will see him? 

Arnold turns around. 

Kevin stands there, at the edge of the circle of tables they made for the party. He looks… better than in Arnold’s dream, but not by much. He’s wrapped in a thick black coat, and his hair is perfect, but there’s also a cut on his chin, and bags under his eyes. He looks about how Arnold remembered him in Uganda. God, he hasn’t changed, and-

Paper. Kevin needs  **paper** , just like in that- in Arnold’s  _nightmare_ , and Kevin is here, Arnold is in his uniform, there’s ornaments on the windows; it’s all a little too similar. A little too real, this time around. 

Kevin looks downright  ** _terrified._**

Arnold obeys, shuffling around his silent coworkers to where Kevin is, then past him and towards the paper shelves, closer to the front of the store. Kevin follows without a word.

They still haven’t said anything by the time they reach the printer paper, and Arnold is pretty sure he’s going to choke. His throat swells up as he turns around, and… Kevin is right there. Arnold could reach out and touch him. Better; he could probably lean forward about an inch, and Kevin would be close enough to hug.

“What did I do?” Arnold blurts out. “I know you’re not gonna be here for paper, so… yeah, screw that.  I just wanna know what happened, okay? You don’t have to tell me, but I’m asking, and I… I want an answer. ‘Cause, ‘cause I had this fucked up  _dream_ , and it was crazy and impossible, and, and  _ **all that**_ , but I… I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get it out of my head.”

Then Arnold forces his chin up to meet Kevin’s eyes.

“Whatever it was,” he says, “I’m sorry. Okay? I have no idea why you’re here, right now; why you asked for me, or… whatever. After all the voicemails I left, the texts, anything. I don’t even know if this is real, honestly, but I’m sorry. I just… want you to know that.” 


	11. Both

Arnold says he’s sorry, for  _whatever_  he did, and that he didn’t mean it.

“Well, that’s just the thing,” Kevin replies, meeting Arnold’s gaze. “I wanted you to mean it.”

That still doesn’t answer Arnold’s question, though:  _what did I do_?

Kevin doesn’t know where to start.

So he explains that they’d been at a party, and that Arnold had gotten drunk. “ _Stupid_  drunk,” Kevin says, in emphasis.  “You threw up —  _twice_.”

Over the rail, into the snow. Arnold had cried after, though neither one of them felt particularly well. Arnold, because he was sick; and Kevin, because his life had just been changed, forever.

He could no longer lie to himself, and there’d be no more pretending: he was gay, and in love with his best friend.

“Look, I don’t really know how to put this, pal.” And,  _gosh_ , hearing himself say that after so long, seems to affect  **him**  just as much as it does  **Arnold** ; “—- so I’m just gonna say it.”

A deep breath in, out, and then in again. Arnold is waiting, impatiently. Kevin says it all in one breath:

“You kissed me.

“– and I  _liked_  it.  **No** , I — I  _loved_  it; but you — you didn’t even remember  _doing_  it. You woke up and went on with your life, like nothing had ever  _happened_ ; writing to Nabulungi, like you still had a chance.”

Kevin sniffs, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. “You were supposed to be my best friend; did you  _really_  not see that I —- that I was, um —–“

Frustrated, Kevin presses a fist to his mouth, as he tries to find the words.

It doesn’t take him very long;

“—- I’m gay.”

Arnold just stands there and stares.  

Rejection  _hurts_ ; it doesn’t matter if it’s been ten years, or ten minutes. Kevin’s heart feels exactly the same.

**Broken**.

“Arnold, I  _love_  you,” he offers, outstretching his arms, to stress just  _how_   _much_. “I think I’ve loved you for a real long time.”

His words are met with silence.

“Please say something.” His arms drop, hanging listlessly at his sides, as music from the party starts to drift in their direction.  _O Holy Night_. Tomorrow is Christmas. Kevin thought maybe he and Arnold could spend it together, in his crappy apartment, curled up beneath the tree with mugs of hot chocolate. They could make cookies, maybe; and share a kiss they’d both  **remember**.

But maybe  _that_  was the real dream.

“Or don’t,” Kevin whispers, hanging his head.

* * *

“ _What_.”

Arnold remembers being drunk, remembers being sick; he remembers Kevin yelling, faintly, like a memory from a dream. He thought it  **was** a dream.

“That was  _it_?” he asks. “ ** _That’s_** why you ran away, because I k-” Arnold swallows. “-kissed you?”

Kevin just watches him, watches his face - like Arnold is keeping him in agonizing suspense.

“Kevin, what-” Arnold has to stop, press the back of one hand to his mouth (just like Kevin did a second ago; fucking  _kill him_ ), and regroup his thoughts. All that time, all that  **pain** … the dream future Arnold saw, all that was because he got /stupid drunk, and made a stupid decision, and Kevin didn’t… “why didn’t you just tell me?

”‘Cause  **no,** I didn’t know you were gay. I  _thought_ , maybe, since you… you never were into girls, but I didn’t know for a fact. And I wasn’t going to say anything, ‘cause I didn’t want you turning out like Elder McKinley. Not that- he’s a great guy, I love ‘im and everything, but… geez, his issues took, like, five years off my life. And you seemed h- not… not  _happy_ , exactly, but… okay. I thought you were  _ **okay**_ , Kevin.“

It’s starting to sink in now, that this is really Kevin.

“What was I supposed to think, buddy?” he asks, making a point of meeting Kevin’s eyes. “You just… up and left. I didn’t know what was going on. I mean, if you hadn’t talked to Connor, I wouldda thought…”

Arnold thought, maybe, that he’d hear about Kevin in the paper or through the grapevine; the tragic tale of the handsome, young ex-missionary who slit his wrists or downed some pills or jumped off a bridge or got ahold of a gun. He thought Kevin might have ended up in a hospital. He thought-

“I didn’t know  **what** to think, Kevin!” Arnold cries. “You  _left_ , without saying  ** _anything_** , and I didn’t know what the hell had happened. And all of that was because you… what was even the problem? That I came onto you? That I was  **drunk**? Your… your ego couldn’t take it, or something? I had to want you  _sober_?

“And you… you’re… now you’re here, and saying you  ** _love_** me?”

Arnold voice cracks.

“You know I… I used to be real good at making things up, and, and  _pretending_ , but… I can’t believe that.”

But Kevin’s still standing there, looking for all the world like the things  _ **Arnold’s**_  saying and the things  _ **Arnold’s**_ doing are tearing him apart, and Arnold  **can’t** -

“If you’re not  _lying_ ,” Arnold says, scrambling for something, anything, “you’ll… you’ll let me…”

In two steps he’s got his arms around Kevin’s waist; he holds on  _ **tight.**_

“Go on,” he says. “T-try and run away, or, or  _leave_ or whatever. Go find your girlfriend or perfect college or whatever it was and j-just…”

Kevin doesn’t move.

“Come on,” Arnold says, squeezing tighter, “just get out of here, okay? D-don’t try and t-tell me you’re… you…”

Arnold sobs, and buries his face in Kevin’s coat. His forehead bumps something hard beneath the cloth, but Arnold doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything except that Kevin isn’t trying to move at all, and he’s actually  _here._

“I’m not gonna ask you to stick around.”


	12. Both

When Arnold says it like that:  _that was it?_  – Kevin starts to realize just how foolish he’s been.

A  **kiss**  – it’s not  _really_  that big of a deal. People kiss all the time. Parents kiss their children; husbands kiss their wives; friends kiss their friends; closeted ex-Mormon homosexuals kiss their best friends at Christmas frat parties, during their first year of college. Maybe the only thing that made their kiss a big deal, was  **Kevin** ; that, and the fact he’d wanted it since sometime in Uganda – so when it finally happened, and Arnold wasn’t even half-there to enjoy it, it  _hurt_.

Arnold nearly says as much, too, when he questions whether or not his lack of sobriety is what ticked Kevin off. 

_Yeah_ , Kevin thinks, stilling as Arnold wraps his arms around him; -  _but it was so much more than that_.

“I  _did_  want you sober,” he admits sheepishly, slowly returning the embrace. It’s funny, just how perfectly they fit together, like this. From their very first hug at the Missionary Training Center, they did. Only, Kevin couldn’t see it, then; he hadn’t wanted to. Being a perfect Mormon, gathering converts, and following the rules, mattered far more than any longing in his heart; and while he certainly didn’t long for Arnold then, he longed for  _somebody_  – it just turned out to be his companion, in the end. “—but,  _gosh_ , not because of my ego! I just wanted you to want it, too! And I  _needed_ you to see how important it was. But all you did was throw up and pass out. Not flattering, pal.”

Kevin’s grip around his friend tightens. He lowers his voice; “– it shouldn’t have happened that way, you know?”

It should have happened when Kevin was well and truly ready; when he could look at himself in the mirror, and like who he saw looking back; when he could look someone,  _anyone_ , in the eye, say ‘I’m gay’ and be proud to admit it; when he had the chance to right all the wrongs he put in Arnold’s path - in _their_  path.

That’s when it should have happened: after dinner; when maybe he and Arnold would be out on the fire escape of Kevin’s building, beneath a blanket of countless stars; he’d reach for Arnold’s hand, reveling in a touch he grew to  _need_  more than  _want_ ; and then he’d lean in and say  _just how long_  he’s been wanting to do this….and then…. _then_  they would kiss.

It would have been perfect. It would have been the fairy tale romance Kevin never felt he deserved, once he knew who he was.

But maybe he doesn’t deserve it, regardless. Not when Arnold is crying into his jacket, and holding onto him so tightly, Kevin things his lungs might collapse. 

There is pain radiating off of Arnold; Kevin can feel it – it’s  _palpable_ ; and it’s all because of  **him**.

“You don’t have to ask,” he murmurs, burying his face in Arnold’s curls. “I’m not going anywhere; not until you tell me to, and even then, I dunno —- I still won’t. I’m not gonna let you down again, pal. You’ll see.”

_— I promise_.

They stay like that for a while; holding onto each other, while a Christmas party unfolds a few aisles away. Laughter starts to drift in their direction, and Kevin finds himself smiling despite everything that’s unfolded in the past twenty-four hours: his accident; Connor’s admonishment; and the visions, the dreams, and the nightmares. It’s hard to be upset, when all of those things brought him  **here**  – to a Staples in Salt Lake at nine-thirty on a Friday evening, in what’s becoming the biggest snowstorm of the year, on Christmas Eve.

“Hey —- do you maybe want to get out of here?” Kevin slowly eases himself out of Arnold’s hold, thumbing over his shoulder. “I have a tree. It’s not – not  _decorated_ , or anything, but we could do that! And – and I’m sure there’s got to be  _something_  in the fridge we can eat, that hasn’t gone bad; and — oh. But you probably have to get back to your family, huh?” 

Kevin doesn’t. He hasn’t had to, in a real long time.

Unintentionally, Kevin deflates; for a while, he allowed himself to believe that his earlier fantasy - the one where the two of them drink cocoa beside his tree - would become a reality, and (for once) Kevin would not be alone at night. But in order for that fantasy to work, Arnold would have to be his best friend; he’d have to love him; and he’d have to want to  _be_ with him…

Kevin isn’t sure Arnold is  _any_  of those things, anymore.

“And your party,” he quickly adds, clearing the hurt out of his voice; “— you have  _that_ ; and —-“

**Excuses**. That’s all those are. Excuses as to whey Arnold can’t come over, and Arnold isn’t even the one  _making_  them.

“I’m gonna go and wait in my car; and if you don’t come out after a while, I’ll just —- I’ll head head back.”

_Alone_.

Kevin smiles, though it does not reach his eyes. “I get it, you know. It was gonna be you and me, forever. We used to talk about that all the time. I let you down; and I know it doesn’t mean much, but — I’m sorry.

“But I’ll get your trust back. You’ll see.”

_That’s a promise_.

Another kiss; long, lingering, sweet.

And then Kevin is ruffling up Arnold’s hair, turning on his heels, and walking towards the doors.

* * *

_It._ This  _ **thing**_ , the stupid mistake Arnold made that ruined his only best-friendship; the one moment he doesn’t even  _remember_ , that pretty much changed his life:  **it,** Kevin says.  _It shouldn’t have happened that way._

And, well, this is Kevin Price, so Arnold knows how  **he** thinks ‘it’ should have happened: under fireworks at Orlando, in front of Cinderella’s castle with, with some bullshit Disney  _love song_  playing in the background. With a trip to Sea World booked for the next day. Or, well… that’s what the old Kevin would have wanted. That’s all Arnold can guess, and he knows- he wouldn’t be good enough for a kiss like that.

Wouldn’t be- hell, he’s still not, and he never will be. Arnold’s the loser who works at the Staples for the rest of his life, and here’s Kevin Price who’s presumably  **doing something**  with his life, letting Arnold  _ **hug**_ him. He’s saying things, too, like  _I’m not gonna let you down again, pal;_ and  _I’m not going anywhere, not until you tell me to, and even then, I dunno —- I still won’t,_ and all  **Arnold**  does is whimper like each word is a blow, and hold him tight. It’s like a dream - a weird, sick dream, where reality changes and the world ends in the drop of a hat. Like the dream Arnold had today; unlike any dream he’s had before. You can’t touch dreams, and you can’t count to ten in them, but Arnold feels the scratchiness of Kevin’s wool overcoat under his fingertips, and he counts to ten over and over, as “Jingle Bell Rock” slides into “Run, Run Rudolph,” then other songs Arnold doesn’t care about until he’s suddenly listening to somebody’s “Baby it’s Cold Outside” cover and Kevin is easing his hands in between Arnold and himself, to push Arnold away.

Arnold squeezes him one last time, before he lets his arms fall.

Kevin is not walking away. Kevin is not smiling that smile that tells Arnold he’s messed something up again. He says Arnold could come with him when they go decorate his  _tree_ , and Arnold starts to laugh - part because that sounds like a really funny euphemism, and part because who doesn’t decorate their Christmas tree before  ** _Christmas Eve?_**

“R-really goin’ all out, huh?” he mutters. Going all out for Christmas, or going all out for  **Arnold** , Arnold doesn’t know. He’s not going to read too much into this.

That’s good, too - because Kevin says something about Arnold’s  _family_ ; about how Arnold should go  ** _stay_** with them, for Christmas. At least he looks as miserable about the idea as Arnold feels. And, hey- that goes in Kevin’s favor, doesn’t it? That he’s  _sad_ about Arnold going back to his parents, like he’s done every fucking night since that party. Kevin has never been that good of an actor, and why would he pretend to be sad for Arnold’s benefit? Maybe… maybe he’s even telling the truth.

Arnold watches Kevin’s face as he straightens up, and steps back, and starts making excuses. It’s a face he’s thought about a lot, of course, but there’s something different about seeing it in person. It’s painful to see, proud Kevin Price fumbling for words, and Arnold has imagined him  _groveling._

“This party doesn’t mean shit,” Arnold says, eyes trained on his face. “Kevin, this isn’t-”

Kevin says he’ll go wait in the car. A kiss for Arnold, to let it sink in, and then heMs gone. He makes it a whole four steps before Arnold lunges for him.

“Wait!” Arnold cries, grabbing at his sleeve, and,  _huh_ \- that’s not supposed to be hard. He tugs the thick cloth back a little, up Kevin’s arm to expose a cast underneath.

“Wh- Kevin, what? You broke your arm? What? What happened, are you… you okay?”

It’s a new cast, too;  _really_ new, clean and bright and  **pink** , without any dirt.

“When did you get this?” Arnold murmurs, tracing the tip of a finger over it. Not a mark on it; no sharpie dicks, or nice messages or anything. The pink is clearly Connor’s touch, but otherwise…

“You could, uh… tell me about it. In the car. If you want? I dunno if… I mean, you  _said_ , but…”

But a lot of things have been said between them,  _about_  them, and a lot of those things haven’t been true. Arnold is as sure Kevin’s telling the truth as he is of his own sanity right now, which means he doesn’t know  ** _shit._**

“I could just tell my boss it’s, uh, an emergency. Or something. They saw I got here, and I… made an effort. And I didn’t have any plans. So…”

Another song starts playing; in a second, Arnold recognizes “All I Want for Christmas is You,” and a cheer goes up from the group in the back of the store.

“So,” Arnold says, but he’s not sure what he wants to say, what he’s trying to ask. He pushes up on his toes, instead, and fists one hand in Kevin’s hair, and revels in just how hot Kevin’s mouth is beneath his own. At least it  **feels**  real.


	13. Both

“I probably shouldn’t be driving,” Kevin says, nodding towards his garish pink cast; “— I don’t even know whose car this is.”

Connor’s probably, if the pink, princess crown seat covers are anything to go by. Why it’s in his possession, though, Kevin has no idea. The last thing he remembers is Connor tucking him into bed, shaking an orange pill bottle in front of his face, and then sweeping the sweat-damp hair off his forehead, before turning off the light. It was sweet in a way their friendship hasn’t been for a while now, so whatever happened - it was probably  _bad_.

Arnold starts to look a bit unsettled as the wind picks up, and the car reacts to its pull. Kevin wishes he could tell him to  _relax_ , but he’s driving one-handed with an arm in a cast, so he doubts it would be reassuring. Instead, he motions for Arnold to turn up the radio, belting out the songs he knows, and talking through the ones he doesn’t. 

It almost feels like they’re in Uganda again, with the way Arnold calls him  _buddy_  and Kevin calls him _pal; and he s_ tarts to realize that the only reason things became complicated between them, was because Kevin made them that way.

Because being with Arnold like this?

It feels  _right_.

Making out in the front seat of Connor’s car feels right, too. 

Kevin parks in front of his building, doing his best to climb over the console and sit in Arnold’s lap. They kiss and paw at one another until the windows fog up, and the chill settles into their bones. There’s hardly an inch of space between them; Kevin starts to feel overwhelmed. 

“I’m dizzy,” he admits, rubbing a hand along Arnold’s arm to warm him; “— you  _gotta_  help me get up the stairs, pal.”

So Arnold does. 

It’s a struggle, though, with how often Kevin stops to kiss him. By the time they make it to Kevin’s door, they both look rather unkempt. 

“You look good like this,” Kevin says, poking the end of Arnold’s nose. Smiling a bit lopsidedly, he turns to struggle with the lock on his door. He can’t get the keys in; -  it never  _used_ to be this hard; but then again, there never used to be  _two_ of everything, either.

Kevin blinks. By the sixth (finally successful) attempt, Kevin starts to realize just how  **stupid** it was for him to drive. That pill bottle he remembers Connor shaking? He  _definitely_ swallowed whatever the heck was inside it, because even  **standing**  is becoming a chore.

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” he yawns, flopping down on the couch.“I really wanted to  _talk_ —-“

_I wanted to **fix**  this_.

Kevin ends up sleeping, instead.  

When he wakes up, it’s Christmas; and Arnold is asleep on the floor.  

_Oh; it wasn’t a dream_ , he thinks happily, reaching down to trace a finger along the bridge of Arnold’s nose. He watches as it scrunches up, and then laughs when Arnold swats his hand away, without waking up.   

“Come  _on_ ,” Kevin says, sitting himself upright; “— it’s  **Christmas**.”

The room spins for half a minute, before finally coming to a stop. Kevin feels  _terrible_ ; everything hurts, and the best he can do is stumble form the couch to the kitchen, where he  makes a pot of coffee and blearily scrolls through his phone. 

There are six missed calls and three texts from Connor. They all say the same exact thing: … _well_?

Kevin responds: _well what_? and then drops his phone on the counter, busying himself with  burnt toast and watery eggs, trying  _unsuccessfully_ to balance two plates of each on the surface of his cast.

“Oh come  _on_ ,” he grouses, helpless to stop them as they crash to the ground. 

The  _only_ saving grace, is that it wakes Arnold up.

Kevin is happy to see him.

“I made breakfast,” he says, nodding to the floor. “— thought I’d feed you, before you had to leave.”

Because unlike Kevin, Arnold has somewhere to be; a family who loves him, who supports him, and _probably_  expected him to be at church this morning, since it’s not only Christmas, but a  _Sunday_.

“I didn’t drop the coffee on the floor,” he offers. “So that’s probably okay.”

It’ ends up being  _better_  than okay; it’s strong and dark and tastes  _really_  good on Arnold’s tongue. It takes them almost an hour to get through one cup, only breaking apart once Arnold’s phone starts to ring and doesn’t seem to stop. It reminds Kevin of the night before, a bit, when  _his_  phone wouldn’t stop ringing in preface of some unfortunate hallucination. 

For a second, Kevin worries that’s all  _this_  is; that it isn’t  _real_ , and in a second he’ll be alone, and Arnold will never have been here.

But — the ringing stops; and Arnold is still in front of him.

_God_ , Kevin thinks, reaching to pull Arnold close; —  _thank you_.

* * *

It smells like burnt bread. Arnold’s nose wrinkles before anything else; before he’s even  _awake_ , really. Usually the breakfast smells don’t waft down to his corner of the basement. He has to stumble his way across all the floor and up all the stairs between his bed and the kitchen table before he can stuff his face full of food, but this… this smells like it’s right-

Arnold blinks, sits up. Kevin stands just a few feet away, with toast squares and splattered scrambled egg at his feet.

 _I made breakfast_ , he says.

Arnold blinks again.

But Kevin doesn’t disappear. He’s standing there, with a hot pink cast on his arm, and this isn’t Arnold’s basement. This is an apartment; this is  **Kevin’s**  apartment.

Kevin invited Arnold to his apartment, and it’s Christmas morning. Not like the Christmas mornings Arnold is used to, of course - he’s never had a super hot guy make out with him against the back of the couch before. But around the wet heat and coffee taste of Kevin’s mouth, Arnold sees blank walls and that tree Kevin mentioned, completely bare, just like he said. There’s not a trace of holiday  _anything_  around. Arnold bets, if he went to Kevin’s fridge right now, there wouldn’t even be  ** _eggnog._**

“H-hey, Kev?” he mutters, carefully easing away. Kevin’s eyes are a little glassy, not quite meeting Arnold’s as he slumps against the back of the sofa. “…Kevin?”

Then Arnold’s phone rings. Oh, shit.

“ _Arnold **Cunningham**_ -!” Shit, she’s crying; Arnold’s mom is crying.  _Shit._

Arnold dives for the hallway; Kevin doesn’t move.

“Mom, I am so, so sorry, but you’re-”

“ _Arnold, it is **Christmas Day**_ ,” she sobs. “ _Your father and I have been worried sick, thinking you ended up in a wreck or in the hospital or **dead**! And  **now** you answer the phone, and…” _Her fragile thread of a voice wavers out into loud, breathy weeping. Arnold winces.

“I really am sorry, Mom,” he says. It doesn’t seem to make a difference - she rants at him for who knows how long, never actually asking  **where** he is. Why he didn’t come home? Of course she asks  ** _that_** , but Arnold didn’t get his loquaciousness from his dad. There’s no way to get a word in edgewise. Arnold doesn’t know how long he sits there, on the stained carpet of Kevin’s apartment’s floor - long enough for his ass to go numb. He still doesn’t hear anything from Kevin, though, and that’s… that’s a little scary, considering everything Kevin told him on the car ride here, about-

That’s when he sees the pill bottle. His mom’s voice - “ _How_ dare you do this to me, on this sacred holiday? Does the birth of our Heavenly Father mean nothing to you?!” - fades out; the bottle is just outside a door, cracked open. Oh, that’s… there’s a bed in there, unmade. Kevin’s bedroom.

The bottle itself isn’t anything special, just one of those orange and white ones you get from the pharmacy, but the label is. Arnold scoops it off the floor. Whatever’s left inside rattles, but there’s not much in there. The label says that Kevin Price is on opiates - strong opiates, for sedation and pain control.

 ** _That’s_**  why Kevin said he shouldn’t be driving; not because of his cast. Nah, he was hopped up on  _this_ stuff, and now…

Arnold looks back out into the living room space, where Kevin has flopped back onto the floor. He’s just staring up at the ceiling, and Arnold can’t see the look on his face.

 _So this is how he felt when I was drunk,_ Arnold thinks.  _It’s… shitty._

Then Kevin smiles. Arnold just sees the corner of it, curving across his face, but Kevin looks so  **happy**. His eyes fall shut, and he hums… something. If he was a cat, Arnold would say he’s purring.

“ _…and **Arnold** , this is not behavior consistent with how I _raised _you! Your father and I made you live in the basement, but now we don’t know what else we can do to bring you back, and Arnold_ -”

“Mom,” he says, softly, “somebody needed me, okay? I’ll… be back at the house soon.”

“ _Needed you? What on earth do you mean, Arnold - we’re your family; ****_we _need you! It’s Christmas_!”

“Talk to you later, Mom.”

Kevin isn’t smiling anymore when Arnold turns off his phone. His eyes stay closed, as Arnold approaches, but he looks… he looks unbearably sad. His arms cross his chest, in a mockery of a hug; he looks alone.

So Arnold kneels down beside him; he taps Kevin’s shoulder - and the look in Kevin’s eyes when they open and he sees Arnold there…

It makes it all worth it.

“Hey, buddy,” Arnold murmurs. He grins, Kevin’s arms wrapping around him and pulling him down to the carpet, too. “Best friend. We can’t stay on the floor forever, y'know. And you need to take your meds. That’s some strong stuff you’re on. And… maybe you could’ve said something? About how bad your wreck was. I don’t think I got that until just now. You could’ve gotten really hurt. Or- but you didn’t. You came to see me, and… and Kev, that’s… that’s really… you’re… you’re lookin’ at me like I hung the moon.”

Kevin smiles, and Arnold can’t keep from kissing him again.

* * *

The floor is far from comfortable, but Kevin’s legs threaten to give out from beneath him, so he lays down upon it, regardless, arms stretched high above his head.

He closes his eyes; the floor is warm – the lady who lives beneath him must have her heat hiked up, again. Kevin starts to sweat, Arnold’s voice drifting towards him from the hallway.

He blocks it out, choosing instead to lose himself in the feel of this place – of the  _floor_  - and of having Arnold near him, again.

* * *

_Hey, buddy, what…what’s this_?

Kevin is sprawled out on the floor of his shared bedroom in the mission hut; the furniture is upturned, and what few clothes they have are scattered about the dusty space. Arnold stands in the doorway, staring down at Kevin with  _apprehension;_ his hand is wrapped around the door frame.

_I hate it here_ , Kevin says, lifting his head just enough to see his companion; and the  _hurt_  that crosses Arnold’s face, is something he’ll never forget. It cuts; deeper than he thought it would. But his words are the truth, and Kevin  _doesn’t lie_.

_I want to go home_ , he says, and his head drops to the floor; —-  _I don’t feel good._

Arnold shuffles his feet.

_No one feels good_ , Kevin stresses, outstretching his arms; -  _just you_.

Always you.  

_Hey, that’s not — it’s not true!_  And then Arnold is laying on the ground beside him, so close their shoulders are touching.  _Remember when I found you with all that coffee, Kev? I didn’t feel good then_.

Kevin laughs; but it’s a terrible sound, and Arnold shies away from it.  _You didn’t feel good_?  ** _You_** _?_ He laughs again, draping an arm over his face to keep his tears right where they are.  _You have **no idea** , pal. None. No idea what I – what  **happened**_.

Arnold props himself up on an elbow; he lowers his eyes from the cracked base of Kevin’s bed, to his face; —  _so tell me, Kevin_!

But Kevin doesn’t.

* * *

Years later, and Arnold still doesn’t know. Kevin never told him, and doubts he ever will. Because it _doesn’t_   _matter_  –because there’s someone else who listens to him, twice a week, who doesn’t know him, who doesn’t know  _them_ , and who won’t regret the best two years of their life, all because of Kevin.

Kevin - who thought he could save a war-torn  _hellscape_ , with a few clever words and a smile.

Kevin – who still thinks he deserved it, sometimes.

* * *

_No one deserves that, Kevin_.  _But you know what they do deserve?_ A pause; Kevin stares down at the palms of his hands. They’re shaking; _— to make peace with what happened, as best they can, and move forward._

* * *

It’s taken a stack of twenty-dollar co-pays, but as Arnold kneels down beside him, Kevin thinks he’s ready to let go. Not – not of  _everything_ , but of enough to where he can move forward - move on - with both Arnold  _and_  his life.

And if those two things happen to converge, all the better. Kevin thinks he could live with that; in fact, he _wants_  to.

“The second I get off the floor, you’re gonna leave,” he says against Arnold’s mouth; “— you  _have_  to leave; so I’m gonna stay here forever, so you don’t.”

But getting off the floor is inevitable, he knows, because Arnold is right – Kevin  **does**  need to take his medication, because his arm  _really_  hurts, and he’s got the beginnings of a headache to match. Besides, he doesn’t want the comfortable numbness of the medication to  _completely_  wear off; once it does, he’s going to remember what happened to him – and what  _could_  have happened – and he isn’t ready to face that, just yet.

Not when Arnold is hovering above him; not when Arnold is  _so close_ …  

“—  _and_  the stars.” Kevin adds, cupping Arnold’s face. “I really missed you.”

So much, that he refuses to let go of Arnold’s shirt, even once his head starts to spin and his stomach starts to hurt.

So much, that he  _swears_  to love Arnold forever, in between bouts of getting sick, slumped against the bathtub.  

So much, that he asks Arnold to marry him, once the pills he was handed start to take effect, and everything gets a bit clouded.

“Stay?” he asks, reaching for Arnold’s hand, once he’s tucked into bed. “According to Rule 72 —-”

Kevin grins; “ —- you  _have_ to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks!


End file.
